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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27451945">The Long Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlejoos/pseuds/beetlejoos'>beetlejoos</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, BAMF Malcolm Bright, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Needs A Hug, Father Figures, Gen, Gil Arroyo Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Protective Gil Arroyo, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:26:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>77,177</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27451945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlejoos/pseuds/beetlejoos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When an investigation spirals out of control, Malcolm finds himself plunged into a nightmare.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>547</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>269</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Nothing About This Makes Sense</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>SPOILERS FOR S1 BELOW:</p><p>This story takes place just after Episode 18 of S1, Scheherazade, following on from Martin telling Malcolm about the Girl in the Box and the unknown killer she had intel on. In this version of events, Ainsley starts digging into Sophie Sanders and Nicholas Endicott before Eve is found dead in the next episode.</p><p>More tags will be added as new chapters are uploaded - I think updates will be around twice a week.</p><p>Ok, that's it for admin! Hope you enjoy ☺️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>“What’s up, kid?”</p><p>Something in Malcolm’s shoulders loosens as he hears Gil’s voice coming out of his phone, wedged between his ear and shoulder as tosses his keys into the plastic tray. Gil sounds like he’s on speakerphone, probably driving home from the precinct in his car. He seems happy and relaxed, and Malcolm feels a pang of guilt.<em> In about 30 seconds, he’s gonna be pissed instead.</em></p><p>“Gil, listen - I think I may have a lead on something… and I know it’s going to sound crazy, but just hear me out, ok?”</p><p>There’s a pause before Gil speaks again, using what Malcolm’s come to think of as his <em>what the hell now</em> voice. “Go on…”</p><p>“The identity of the man the Surgeon’s been refusing to share with us… I think it’s Nicholas Endicott.”</p><p>This time the pause is sheer confusion. “<em>Endicott?”</em></p><p>“Ainsley did some digging,” says Malcolm, hurrying along. “Sophie was working for him. Eve’s sister. I couldn’t figure out <em>why</em> he wouldn’t tell me who it was, but this explains everything - someone with Endicott's money and power would have the-“</p><p>“Woah - hold up. Just, wait a second,” says Gil. Malcolm hears the distant blare of a horn and wonders if Gil’s holding up evening traffic while he processes. “You think the serial killer your Girl in the Box knew - the name she gave to your father to stop <em>him</em> from killing her- is the same guy who’s currently dating your <em>mom</em>?<em>”</em></p><p>“Like I said - it sounds crazy. But it also makes perfect sense!”</p><p>“Kid, <em>nothing</em> about this makes sense,” growls Gil. “Have you told your mother?”</p><p>“No! No, and we can’t. Gil, if she knew - it would put her in danger,” he says. He passes a guard he doesn’t recognise who looks at him curiously as he passes and he tries to tamp down the anxiety he’s felt ever since Ainsley’s call as it rises up again, making his heart race faster in his chest. “A guy like Endicott - we can’t exactly call him in for questioning. We’d need to know beyond the shadow of a doubt. The kind of legal defence he could afford -“</p><p>“I get it,” says Gil wearily. “But if you’re right, that won’t protect him. Not against the kind of charges we’re talking about.”</p><p>“We have to be careful. He’s rich, and he’s smart, and I’m pretty sure he’s been careful not to get his own hands dirty. We need to speak to someone who can give us something concrete we can use against him.”</p><p>There’s another pause, and then a sigh. “You mean your father,” he says heavily. “Bright… “</p><p>“I know,” soothes Malcolm,“it’s not ideal -“</p><p>“It’s not <em>ideal</em>? Bright, I know the girl - <em>Sophie,</em>” he corrects himself, “I know finding out what happened to her is important to you… but don’t you think your father knows that? Suddenly he’s admitting she’s real, and there’s a whole story about how she’s still alive and out there and he’s the only guy with the information you need to find her? Isn’t that just a little <em>convenient?</em>”</p><p>He comes to a stop before a security door, waiting to be waved through. “I don’t know if <em>convenient</em> is the word I’d use to describe any of this.”</p><p>“Every time you go to Claremont, you come back with more questions than answers. If there’s any truth to this Endicott idea, we’ll find proof. Just hold off on visiting your father, ok? There’ll be a trail, <em>something</em> - something more definite than whatever story he’s spinning -“</p><p>The security door bangs behind him, traitorously loud, and Malcolm can practically <em>hear</em> Gil’s knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.</p><p>“… You’re already there, aren’t you?” he asks flatly.</p><p>“I can get him to talk! Now I <em>know</em> the name, he’s got no reason -“</p><p>Gil swears<em>. “</em>If there’s one thing your father doesn’t need, it’s a <em>reason</em> to - to mess with your head!” he hisses. “Come meet me at the precinct. I'll head back now - we can look into this properly - run down some real intel -“</p><p>“There’ll be nothing to find,” says Malcolm, absolutely certain that he’s right. He swallows, bringing a calm he doesn’t feel into his voice as he reaches the corridor that leads to his father’s cell. “We can’t ignore the best lead we have just because it’s uncomfortable for me.”</p><p>He hears Gil huff out a disbelieving breath, and feels that old guilt rise up again. <em>How many more times can he run to the man, demanding his support, refusing his advice? </em>“Kid… if we were talking <em>uncomfortable, </em>I wouldn’t be worried. I don’t like you doing this.”</p><p>“I know,” he says unhappily. “I’m sorry.” The guard nods to him impatiently; Malcolm’s already breaching official visiting hours by coming to Claremont this late in the day. “I uh… I have to go now.”</p><p>He hears Gil mutter something as he hangs up. The corridor unrolls before him, the familiar walkway that’s been the starting point of so many of his nightmares. His hand starts shaking before he’s returned his phone to his pocket and he grips it into a fist. <em>He can’t let his father scent his weakness.</em> Not with so much at stake.</p><p>The walk down the corridor feels like it takes an eternity, as well as no time at all.</p><p>The door swings open.</p><p>“My boy…!”</p><p>Malcolm waits for the door to close behind him before he raises his eyes, meeting the lie of his father’s smile with as much equanimity as he can muster. For once - <em>for once</em> - he’s armed with a curveball his father won’t see coming, and he prays it gives him the edge he desperately needs.</p><p>“It’s Nicholas Endicott, isn’t it?”</p><p>He’s watching <em>so carefully</em>, and the tell is there. The tiniest flicker of something like fear, or rage, flaring in Martin’s eyes before the facade slips smoothly back into place. His hands, cuffed neatly before him, pluck at the hem of his cardigan - a small, frustrated gesture that only makes Malcolm more sure. <em>He’s </em><span class="u"><em>right</em></span><em> - Ainsley’s intel was </em><em><span class="u">right</span>…</em></p><p>“Who now?” Martin says airily, but they both know it’s too late.</p><p>It’s Nicholas fucking Endicott. As if things weren’t difficult <em>enough</em>.</p><p>“Don’t,” he says, and his voice shakes from how badly he <em>needs</em> his father to give him this. “What did Sophie say? Whatever you have on him - you need to tell me, and you need to tell me now. We have to strike fast, before he knows we’re onto him.”</p><p>Martin’s eyes narrow, scanning him. Malcolm imagines him dispassionately processing every scrap of data Malcolm is unwillingly broadcasting, calculating his next words by whatever he sees there. “How <em>dramatic</em>. This all sounds very exciting Malcolm, and you know I love it when you bring me in on your little cases… but I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Don’t. Just - <em>don’t</em>,” snaps Malcolm. “I know, so there’s no point you <em>not</em> telling me. The smartest thing you can do now to protect yourself - to protect <em>your family</em> - is to give me whatever information you have.” Martin’s face does something between a snarl and sneer, the sunny mask he’s wearing warping for a second… before he scoffs. He waves a cuffed hand dismissively, turning his back as if their conversation is too ridiculous for him to entertain any further.</p><p>“You know I’m right,” insists Malcolm, and as he’d hoped, Martin’s eyes flick back to him. <em>Because if there’s one thing that can be relied upon, it’s his father’s unrelenting narcissism…</em></p><p>“Oh, I’m sure you <em>think</em> you’re right, my boy. Your motives sound very admirable. But let’s just say, for a second, I <em>did </em>have any idea what you were talking about… how are<em> you</em> going to protect anyone?”</p><p>“I work <em>with the police</em>,” points out Malcolm, and Martin’s condescending laugh has his good hand clenching into a fist alongside the other one. “We can arrest him. Get him sent away, where he can’t hurt anybody else —“</p><p>“You want to open an investigation into Endicott?” Martin actually looks alarmed, and he moves as close to the red line as he can, the tether stretched taut behind him. “Why don’t we just save ourselves the headache and draw up a Father-Son suicide pact right now?”</p><p>Seeing his father rattled should be unsettling - but strangely it’s the thing that makes Malcolm calm again, makes him regain his footing in the battle. He raises his head defiantly, and tries to slip back into professional tones. <em>If he can just make his father <span class="u">see</span> that there’s no real choice here -</em></p><p>“If you won’t help me, that’s your decision - but I’m not going to stop. I’m more likely to succeed with your co-operation. Me and my team can -“</p><p>“You want to rely on <em>them?!” </em>hisses Martin. “Please! Slow-witted… <em>pen pushers</em> like your Lieutenant Arroyo?!” Malcolm feels a flare of heat in his chest at the contempt in his father's voice. “You seriously think they can help you?!” Martin shakes his head.“I should have known… Gil put you up to this, didn’t he? When they dredge your body out of the Hudson, we’ll all know what to put on your headstone. ‘Here lies Malcolm Bright, courtesy of the NYPD’!”</p><p>“<em>Gil</em> didn’t send me here,” snarls Malcolm, “this was <em>my</em> idea. And my team don’t put me in danger, they <em>help</em> me - ”</p><p>“Please. They <em>use </em>you. For that clever little brain of yours. For your access to <em>me.</em>” Malcolm gapes at him.</p><p>“You think if it was up to him I’d even <em>be</em> here?! He’d rather I never set foot in this place again -“</p><p>“Oh I’m sure he protests a bit - just not <em>too</em> much. He knows how to keep his hands clean.”</p><p>“That’s not - he doesn’t -“</p><p>“He really got his claws into you, didn’t he?” sneers Martin. “Turning up on my doorstep was the best thing that ever happened to him. Got himself the arrest of the century <em>and</em> an obedient little lapdog all in one.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him, outrage and disbelief brimming up inside him. The idea that Gil is simply <em>using</em> him… of course that’s all his father could understand. He <em>knows</em> Gil would rather he hadn’t come here…</p><p>… <em>but here he is anyway</em>, points out a little voice in his head. <em>You ignored him, and you came, and what a surprise, Gil was right</em>. His father’s just messing with his head, like always.<em> When has anything good <span class="u">ever</span> come from him being </em><span class="u"><em>here</em></span><em>?</em></p><p>He feels a sudden ridiculous urge to cry, at how goddamn <em>stupid</em> he still manages to be, over and over again. Of <em>course</em> his father isn’t going to help him. And of course he wouldn’t trust that there’s <em>anything</em> Malcolm might be able to achieve, independent of his machinations. He doesn’t know why the realisation makes him feel so furious, and makes another, smaller part feel so defeated.</p><p>He swallows back his rage, his disappointment, and draws his professionalism around himself like armour.</p><p>“Fine<em>. </em>I asked for your help - I got my answer. I’ll let you know how my investigation goes.” He ignores the way his father’s eyes widen in what seems like genuine alarm and turns away, rapping on the cell door.</p><p>“No, Malcolm, you have no idea who you’re dealing with! You cannot keep going down this path. Malcolm, look at me… Malcolm, I am your father and you will <em>listen to me!” </em></p><p>Malcolm steadfastly ignores him, trying to hide the tension he feels that comes from turning his back on his father when the man is so enraged.</p><p>“Malcolm - don’t you <em>dare</em> walk out that door!!”</p><p>He bangs on the glass again impatiently as he hears Martin pacing angry circles behind him. His phone starts to ring in his pocket - <em>Gil,</em> he thinks automatically, but when he glances at the screen, the number is unknown, and he hits the reject button.</p><p>“What about your mother?” hisses Martin. “And Ainsley? Did you think about them? You don’t think this little David and Goliath mission of yours might jeopardise<em> their </em>safety?”</p><p>Malcolm almost almost chokes at that, a flood of bitter responses ready to burst out of him, but he bites his tongue and hammers on the door for a third time. “Hello?!” he calls.</p><p>Normally Mr David is stationed right outside the door for his conversations with Martin… but it wasn’t Mr David who escorted him today, he realises. He didn’t recognise the guard who brought him here. He feels a tiny (<em>irrational, </em><span class="u"><em>totally</em></span><em> irrational</em>) spike of fear at how long it’s taking to let him out of the cell. <em>This isn’t one of his nightmares, he isn’t </em><span class="u"><em>trapped</em></span><em> in here with his father</em>. The guard’s just being slow.</p><p>His father has fallen suddenly silent behind him, and that only adds to the feeling of sudden <em>wrongness</em> creeping over him. “Hey! I’d like to leave now!” He peers through the foggy glass, trying to catch a glimpse of the man outside.</p><p>The corridor outside is empty; the door closed at the far end.</p><p>There’s no one out there.</p><p>His mouth is suddenly dust dry, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin. The ring of his mobile in his pocket again is far too loud; it makes his heart jump in his chest. His fingers press helplessly against the steel door - <em>but there’s no way out, the room is </em><span class="u"><em>designed</em></span><em> to keep people </em><span class="u"><em>in.</em></span>Malcolm has no way of leaving here without the help of the guards - guards who, against all logic, seem to have abandoned him...</p><p><em>He’s caught you at last</em>, whispers a voice in his head - but that can’t be right, the<em> Surgeon</em> can’t be behind this…</p><p>He turns slowly, dreading what he’ll see behind him.</p><p>But his father is simply standing there, his expression terrifyingly blank. There’s no look of triumph in his eyes. The phone keeps on ringing, shrill and insistent, the only sound to puncture the heavy silence that’s fallen over the room…</p><p>Until his father finally speaks again. His tone is eerily calm.</p><p>“I think… you should probably answer that.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Incredible artwork by stlouisphile! 💕</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Phone Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>As if in a dream, Malcolm takes the phone out of his pocket. Looks down at the <em>Number Withheld</em> glowing out from the screen. <em>Now would be a good time to wake up,</em> he thinks, even as he accepts the call and wordlessly holds the phone against his ear.</p>
<p>“<em>Malcolm</em>,” smiles the man on the other end of the line. “Finally! I’m not used to my calls being screened. That was really… rather <em>rude</em> of you.”</p>
<p>A voice like velvet. Rich and smug and so full of confidence, as Malcolm suddenly fears his legs might give way beneath him. “Endicott,” he breathes.</p>
<p>In his gut he was already certain, but this final confirmation steals the breath from his lungs. <em>How did the man </em><span class="u"><em>know</em></span><em>? The guard - the cell - getting his number, none of it makes any sense —</em></p>
<p>“Indeed. But you knew that already, didn’t you? It sounds like you and your sister have been busy little bees.”</p>
<p>“No - this has nothing to do with her!” he snarls, a reflex of fury and sheer panic. “If you go anywhere <em>near</em> Ainsley…”</p>
<p>The voice chuckles in his ear, a throaty, purring sound he’s heard before; at fancy dinners, charity galas. <em>How had he missed the sheer malevolence in it, all those other times?</em> “So <em>fierce</em>, Malcolm! And I applaud your sentiments. You speak as any big brother should. But there’s no need to worry yourself. I don’t think she’s here right now.”</p>
<p>He blinks in confusion. “She’s not… what?”</p>
<p>“She might be joining us for dinner later - your mother hasn’t decided yet. Didn’t I mention? I’m calling from your house.”</p>
<p>Malcolm feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. He has to reach out to catch himself on the doorframe as he reels, struggling to make sense of how suddenly, horrifyingly <em>wrong</em> everything has become. “Oh… steady there, Malcolm. We don’t want you fainting on us. At least, not before we’ve had a chance to finish our little chat.”</p>
<p>It takes a few seconds for his brain to figure out the what’s wrong about that sentence and then he wheels round, eyes finally landing on the ancient-looking CCTV pointing down at him from the topmost corner of the cell. “Yes, that’s right,” says the voice. “Peekaboo. Say hi to your dad from me, won’t you?”</p>
<p>Malcolm wrenches his gaze off the lens to find his father’s eyes, watching from across the cell. “You can see us,” he says, with a calm he doesn’t feel, and Martin’s eyes leap to the camera as well. Part of Malcolm’s mind recognises what he’s doing - <em>stalling for time, </em>trying to think of some strategy to handle this while Endicott gloats - but the words come out of his mouth without conscious engagement from his brain. He feels like he’s watching himself, the way Endicott must be watching. He’s somewhere outside his body as it leans back against the locked door. He knew the man was ruthless… <em>dangerous</em>… but <em>this…</em></p>
<p>“That’s right. Amazing what these gadgets can do nowadays isn’t it? Netflix, Hulu… and Claremont Psychiatric. All streaming direct to my tablet, while I sit on your sofa and enjoy a glass of <em>excellent </em>wine. Your mother doesn’t skimp on the good stuff, does she?”</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” he says. His heart is racing as if he’s just finished a sprint; his mind whirring as he desperately spins through scenarios, trying to figure out what the man on the end of the phone is planning.</p>
<p>“Manners,” says Endicott lazily. “And by the way Malcolm, if you’re thinking about hanging up on me and trying to call someone, to get some outside help… I would strongly advise that you <em>don’t</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Malcolm peers through the glass window again, trying to spy any glimpse of movement at the far end of the corridor. “And why is that?”</p>
<p>“Well, let’s think about it. You’re currently locked in a cell at the heart of New York’s most secure psychiatric facility, with no way out, unless I see fit to release you… <em>because you said my name. </em>What do you think is going to happen if you actually <em>try</em> to piss me off?”</p>
<p><em>Has the man tapped his phone? Did Endicott hear him say his name to Gil?</em> Malcolm will never forgive himself if he’s dragged Gil into the man’s crosshairs… But even as his heart lurches at the thought, another option occurs to him. “You… you bugged Dr Whitly’s cell?”</p>
<p>Endicott laughs again, sounding genuinely tickled this time. “<em>Dr Whitly</em>? Is that what you call him? Malcolm, that’s adorable. And, yes. I’ve been monitoring your father’s conversations for… quite some time.”</p>
<p>Malcolm closes his eyes, trying to mask the flare of relief he feels - as Martin takes an angry step forward. “Put him on speaker,” he demands, but Malcolm would rather not be stuck in the middle of a conversation between two psychopaths if he can help it. He ignores him and bangs once more on the door, the action borne out of frustration more than any belief anyone might hear him.</p>
<p>“So what is this - a warning?” he asks. “I speak your name, and you show me just how powerful you really are? Is that it?”</p>
<p>“That son of a bitch has been <em>listening in on me</em>,” hisses Martin. “We had a <em>deal! </em>A deal <em>I</em> stuck to!”</p>
<p>“I’m assuming you want <em>something </em>from this… power-play,” presses Malcolm. “So what is it?”</p>
<p>Endicott snorts. “I don’t want anything from <em>you, </em>boy. Put your father on the line.”</p>
<p>Malcolm bristles, but keeps his tone firm. <em>Step One: show the megalomaniac he has most, but not </em><span class="u"><em>all</em></span><em>, of the control. </em>“No. Not until I have your word that my mother and sister are safe.”</p>
<p>There’s a brief silence. “Well, well. Bargaining with me already. You’ve grown up into quite the little spitfire, haven’t you?” Malcolm glowers up at the camera as that nauseating chuckle echoes down the line again. “Oh, calm down. You have my word, Malcolm. Your sister has no hope of finding anything that can touch me. And your mother… well, your mother’s far too lovely for me to lay a finger on her. At least… not in the way you mean.”</p>
<p>Malcolm clenches his jaw. The man is vile, but he’s pretty sure he’s not lying. Reluctantly, he holds out his phone between himself and his father and puts it on speaker. Martin squares his shoulders, instantly calmer now that he has a direct line to the man.</p>
<p>“Nicholas,” he says coolly. “I don’t believe constant surveillance was part of our little bargain.” <em>Because of course </em><span class="u"><em>that’s</em></span><em> the thing he’s concerned about - the affront to his ego -</em></p>
<p>“What can I say? The situation evolved.”</p>
<p>“Yet I kept my word,” points out Martin. “As you’ll know, thanks to your <em>bug</em>.” Malcolm gives him a look that he hopes conveys exactly what he thinks of his father’s priorities, and Martin smoothly changes gear. “Now you listen to me. I know my boy here can be a little… <em>hot-headed</em>… but he’s not stupid, I assure you. He won’t be saying anything about this to anyone - aside from anything else, he has nothing to tell. He doesn’t know anything.” He rounds this off with a pointed glare at Malcolm; one which he swiftly reciprocates.</p>
<p>“But you do, don’t you Martin? For a while I thought our little arrangement was enough to take care of that, but now… Now I’m not so sure.”</p>
<p>Martin doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you should know… I’ve arranged for certain papers to be released, in the event of my <em>untimely</em> death. A little insurance policy I took out… just in case.”</p>
<p>There’s a pause and Malcolm finds himself looking into his father’s eyes, trying to figure out if the man is bluffing. They both wait, with bated breath - and it’s surreal, this brief moment of unity between them. He doesn’t want to be standing here next to his father, as if they’re on<em> the same side…</em> just the feeling of it squeezes at his heart and makes him want to throw himself back across the room, to start hammering on that door again…</p>
<p>“Then you’ll tell me exactly what it is you have that might place me in a compromising situation. Give me a chance to do some damage control.”</p>
<p>“And why would I give up my leverage, when I’m fairly sure it’s the only thing keeping me alive?” asks Martin.</p>
<p>Endicott laughs again. The sound sends a shiver of ice down Malcolm’s spine.</p>
<p>“Oh, Martin. You’ll tell me. Or more precisely, you’ll tell my men. And if you’re stubborn about it, well… that will just make the next few minutes <em>significantly</em> more interesting.” There’s a moment of silence in which Malcolm simply stares down at the glowing phone, barely able to process what he’s hearing - before the voice continues again. “Now, I don’t want you worrying, Malcolm. Jessica’s always telling me what a sensitive young man you are. So I want you to know that I’ll be sticking around here, ready to comfort your mother when the call comes in.”</p>
<p>“What… what call?”</p>
<p>His hand gripping the phone has started shaking again and he can’t help but look back up at the red, winking eye of the camera, as if he’ll see the man’s face there, smiling back at him.</p>
<p>“She’s going to be devastated. Such a tragic waste. The Surgeon’s final victim… his own son. And then the man himself - no loss there, of course - killed in the struggle with the guards who arrived just…<em> seconds</em> too late.” Endicott sighs deeply, as if his own words have moved him, and Malcolm feels all the blood drain from his face.</p>
<p>“No,” he whispers. “You… you can’t…”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately for you, I very much can. Without even getting up from this couch.”</p>
<p>“No, just - just wait - <em>please</em> -”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>Malcolm! </em>The look on your face! It’s heart-breaking, really.”</p>
<p>Martin’s face contorts with rage, and the expression should frighten Malcolm… if he had the space to feel anything beyond the sweeping sense of horror that seems to be shutting him down from the inside. He swipes the phone off speaker, stepping away from his father again, hoping against hope he can somehow get through to the man, create some sort of <em>connection -</em></p>
<p>“Endicott, listen - neither of us - we haven’t said a word to anyone! My father kept your deal. He honoured that agreement, and I - I won’t….”</p>
<p>“You won’t <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>His voice is heavy with amusement. The silence stretches as Malcolm stares up at the lens, desperately trying to find the words that can make this stop, that can convince Endicott to change his mind, that will deliver him from the sudden nightmare he’s found himself trapped in…</p>
<p>But he can’t. The words that could get him out of this don’t exist.</p>
<p>“That’s what I thought.”</p>
<p>There’s a sudden <em>screech</em> of metal that makes Malcolm jump <em>- the sound of the door opening, at the far end of the corridor.</em></p>
<p>“I suppose this is goodbye, then. I must be going now - other calls to attend to, you know how it is. But even if you can’t hear my voice, I want you to know, Malcolm… I <em>will </em>be watching.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cornered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The line goes dead and Malcolm’s ability to breathe seems to go with it. He stares dumbly at the phone, trembling along with his hand, and for a few seconds, utterly fails to process anything at all. It’s all too big, too abrupt. Half an hour ago he was hurrying into the building and now… <em>now…</em></p><p>
  <em>He’s a dead man.</em>
</p><p>The <em>slam </em>of metal jolts him back to himself - lungs contracting again, blood rushing back into his brain, and he races to the glass window…</p><p>Outside, two men in guard uniforms stand by door at the end of the corridor. One of them, a skinny guy with a shock of red hair, is locking it behind them. The other, a man with the sort of proportions Malcolm associates with the Incredible Hulk, looks ahead and catches Malcolm’s eyes though the glass.</p><p>He grins.</p><p>Malcolm spins back round from the window - he needs a weapon, something to barricade the door, <em>anything </em>- but he’s <em>trapped inside a goddamn </em><span class="u"><em>prison</em></span><em> and all the furniture is </em><span class="u"><em>bolted</em></span> <span class="u"><em>down</em></span><em>…</em></p><p>“How many?” spits his father, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively in the cuffs and Malcolm feels a whole new spike of fear lance through him… <em>because they’re coming to kill his father while he’s <span class="u">chained</span> to a </em><em><span class="u">wall</span>.</em> The idea of Martin being anything like defenceless, of not being the most dangerous man in the room, is so shockingly new it almost freezes him in place again.</p><p>“Two,” he gasps, eyes scanning the room frantically - <span class="u"><em>think</em></span> - he needs to be smart - he needs to not play by Endicott’s rules… He fumbles with the phone, his grip slick with sweat. His hands are shaking too hard to dial - all he can do is hit redial, hit speaker, before he throws his weight back against the door as he hears the sound of the key turning in the lock. “Just… stay back,” he grits out, “I’ll try and hold them off -“</p><p>A face appears at the porthole in the door, just inches away from his own. <em>Hulk’s here</em>, thinks Malcolm with a kind of delirious panic, as those eyes latch on to his and the man's vicious-looking smile widens. The kind of smile a cat might give a mouse...</p><p>The door starts to move.</p><p>Malcolm throws his entire weight against it, rocking it back again for a second, before it inexorably starts creeping open. Ginger has joined Hulk now and he knows they’re toying with him; wearing him out before they’re even in the same room but he has to <em>try.</em> Malcolm digs in, straining to push them back, to buy them a few more seconds but <em>this is not a plan,</em> he screams at himself internally, <em>he needs a goddamn </em><span class="u"><em>plan</em></span><em> -</em></p><p>The phone connects as Malcolm’s entire body weight slides back a couple more inches - enough for an arm to reach through —</p><p><em>“</em>Bright,” says Gil’s voice, sounding mildly surprised and impossibly incongruous with the insane situation he’s in, “I was just -“</p><p>“Gil,” gasps Malcolm, “It's Endicott, he -“</p><p>The door slams open. Malcolm’s phone flies out his hand, smashing to the floor and he staggers back - <em>don’t cross the red line!</em> thinks a hysterical part of his mind - crashing into his father.</p><p>Hulk steps inside, no longer smiling but furious. <em>His boss must have </em><span class="u"><em>really</em></span><em> not wanted any outside calls…</em> His eyes find the phone beside his feet -</p><p>“Kid?! Bright, what the hell’s going on??”</p><p>Gil’s voice floats out from the speakers, tinny and frantic - as Hulk brings down his heel. “Help!” shouts Malcolm, but his phone is splintered glass and plastic before he’s gotten the word out. Ginger follows Hulk inside, closing the cell door and Malcolm feels the Surgeon square up behind him, taking in their adversaries.</p><p>“We’ve got ourselves quite the party,” Martin breathes. “I don’t suppose either of you two gentlemen could be interested in changing allegiances?” He nudges Malcolm to the side to get a clearer look at the two of them, and <em>that’s what Malcolm needs: a distraction.</em> “My wife - technically <em>ex-</em>wife, but who’s splitting hairs - is one of the wealthiest women on the East Coast, so if you fancied a pay bump…”</p><p>While their eyes are on Martin, Malcolm lunges - he grabs the wheeled chair, the only bit of furniture not bolted to the ground, and slams it towards Ginger - sending him stumbling back. He’s scrambling after him before the man can right himself - <em>fast, he has to do this </em><span class="u"><em>fast </em></span><em>-</em> knocking him further off balance with a swift punch to the jaw, followed by an elbow rammed straight into his solar plexus. Ginger collapses to his knees, gaping for air. <em>Take that,</em> thinks Malcolm savagely, and he grabs a medical journal off his father’s shelf and smashes it across Ginger’s face with all his strength. The man sprawls across the floor, unconscious.</p><p>
  <em>One down.</em>
</p><p>People always tend to underestimate Malcolm in a fight. It comes with advantages.</p><p>The whole thing’s happened fast enough that Hulk - <em>the biggest, but maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed</em>, notes Malcolm - has barely reacted, watching him from across the room, while Martin stares down at Malcolm’s handiwork with an undisguised, feral glee. “Yes, my boy! Finish him off!”</p><p>Instantly, Malcolm’s sense of victory is curdling into something nauseating. “What are you waiting for?!” urges Martin. “Throw him over here and I’ll do it!”</p><p>Hulk simply looks at Malcolm with a kind of unruffled curiosity -<em> he wants to see if I’ll do it,</em> realises Malcolm, feeling like he’s spinning further and further into some kind of hellish hallucination; <em>h</em><em>e’s not worried about the odds - he doesn’t </em><span class="u"><em>care</em></span><em> if Malcolm kills him -</em> </p><p>“Go ahead,” says Hulk, in slow, measured tones. “I think I’d like to see that.” Martin double-takes. Hulk waits, to see what Malcolm’s going to do, before seeming to accept that bloody execution isn’t on the cards.</p><p>He cracks his knuckles.</p><p>Every instinct is telling Malcolm that he should be retreating, putting as many futile inches between himself and this man as he can. <em>B</em><em>ut the man can only attack one of them at once, and if he’s not fighting Malcolm… he’ll go after Martin.</em> At least Malcolm can <em>try </em>to defend himself - Martin can’t even block a punch….</p><p><em>But how would it feel,</em> whispers a voice in the corner of his mind,<em> to see his father scared, to see his father be the one who’s hurt? </em>He’s genuinely not sure of the answer, and part of him doesn’t know which reaction he’d hate himself for more. Either way, he's pretty sure it will dominate his next decade of therapy if he has to find out…</p><p>He steps forward, pulling Hulk’s focus back onto him, sizing the man up. <em>Just because he’s big, doesn’t mean he’s good at hand to hand,</em> he tells himself. Endicott will want the cover story to stick, so he probably doesn’t have a hidden blade. From the looks of it, this guy <em>prefers </em>a hands-on approach, which evens the odds further even if it’s terrifying in other ways. He glances quickly to his father, who’s watching this play out carefully, his gaze coolly assessing.<em> He wants to see how well I do,</em> comes the thought, before Malcolm can banish it. <em>This is </em><span class="u"><em>so</em></span> <span class="u"><em>fucked</em></span><em>, on every level —</em></p><p>Hulk lunges, with a speed Malcolm wasn’t anticipating - or perhaps he’s just distracted by the running analysis he can’t seem to switch off - and the first blow sends him spinning, staggering back against the door. He launches off from the surface, slamming his shoulder into the man’s side and succeeds in sending him lurching backwards. He swipes out with his foot, hacking the man’s leg, trying to hook it behind his knees, to get his feet out from under him - when a fist strikes the back of his head, sending his vision swimming. He collapses to the floor, trying to roll away, to crawl back as dark spots crowd in front of his eyes.</p><p>From down here, the guy looks even bigger. He looms over Malcolm… and then takes a step back.</p><p><em>Waiting for him to get to his feet,</em> realises Malcolm, with a swell of disbelief and then <em>rage</em>. He’s so confident that he can crush Malcolm like a bug, he’s <em>playing</em> with him, planning to drag this out. He spits blood and scrambles back to his feet.</p><p><em>Aim for the temple</em>, he decides - <em>one well-placed blow, and he’ll go down</em>. He feints left, strikes right -</p><p>It’s like hitting a slab of meat. The man barely seems to feel it - his own strike sets Malcolm’s head ringing but he throws himself forward again, head-butting the man in the stomach and <em>that</em> sends him stumbling, the breath leaving his chest in a <em>whoosh</em> -</p><p>“Left knee, my boy!” calls his father - and Malcolm has no idea what he’s spotted but he kicks out, slamming with his heel and the man goes down sharply onto one knee with a roar of pain. Malcolm opens his hand -<em> one jab to the throat, interrupt his breathing, it’s over -</em> he strikes -</p><p>But the man turns his head just in time, the blow glancing off his jaw. Hulk’s arm flies up, quick as a snake, to catch Malcolm’s shirt and yank him down to the floor alongside him. Malcolm slams down onto his knees, reaching out to steady himself, and a hand the size of a brick seizes his forearm, twisting it brutally out from under him. He cries out in pain —</p><p>“Going for the throat?" sneers Hulk. “I know that trick.” He gets to his feet again, dragging Malcolm up with him, his arm wrenched painfully behind his back. He tries to kick at the man’s shins behind him but Hulk just bends him double, so that losing his balance would mean wrenching his own arm out of its socket unless the man lets go. He’s dragged forwards, stumbling, gasping in pain, until the grip eases just long enough to pin him up against the wall of the cell, his wrist now pressed at an agonising angle between his own shoulder blades.</p><p>Hulk’s other hand snakes around his neck, cupping his throat and <em>squeezing</em>. His gasps of pain become gurgles. The man's fingers dig into the soft underside of his jaw, forcing his head back against Hulk's shoulder while the rest of him is crushed against the wall. His feet lose purchase on the ground and Malcolm struggles frantically - legs kicking - the agony in his arm bringing tears to his eyes —</p><p>And just like that, man throws him down again, like a toy he’s grown bored with. He hits the cell floor with a heavy thud and lies there, trembling, wheezing. <em>Round three</em>, chirps a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his father. <em>His father...</em> who’s no doubt watching from the corner, observing Malcolm getting the crap kicked out of him like he’s a goddamn <em>science experiment </em>-</p><p>He tries to get to his knees. He makes it onto all fours when a savage kick drops him. Hulk stamps on his back, hard and sharp enough to provoke a scream. The man’s boot slides under his shoulder, toeing him onto his back, and yet again Malcolm is faced with the sight of the man towering over him, looming like a pissed off obelisk. A tiny, treacherous part of his mind wishes that Hulk would just get on with it.<em> Save him the the Herculean effort of getting to his feet when he’s only going to be thrown on his ass again.</em></p><p>“Any more?” rumbles the man.</p><p>Malcolm rolls onto his side, and tries to rise. The man hooks him under the arm and pulls him to his feet obligingly. “S’good if you fight,” he says, and then slugs him in the jaw, so that he falls back against the cell door again. “We’re gonna say your daddy here beat you to death,” he adds. “Can’t make it look too easy.”</p><p>Malcolm stays huddled against the wall, head down, spitting more blood onto the floor…</p><p>So that when the man steps closer again, he’s unprepared when Malcolm kicks out as hard as he can. He strikes the man’s left knee again and he drops with a shout of pain, toppling onto his back so that he’s laid out flat along the floor of the cell —</p><p>And Martin’s foot stamps down once, dizzyingly hard, on the man’s skull.</p><p>Hulk’s head lolls to the side. Martin grips him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him over the red line. Hulk blinks dazedly as Martin beams down at him, like Christmas has come early…</p><p>There’s a brutally efficient <em>crack!</em> as Hulk’s right wrist snaps under Martin’s boot. Another as he brings his heel down sharply on his left forearm. Hulk howls in agony, his limbs splayed out crookedly like a broken doll - then his cry is cut short by cuffed hands pressing down on his throat. His eyes roll up in his head; hissing, spitting noises bubbling out of him as Martin leans his full weight down…</p><p>Malcolm stares, frozen as Hulk twitches, feebly trying to batter Martin off with his shattered, useless arm, his broken wrist - before the pain of even trying seems to knock him out completely. His feet, the only part of him still on Malcolm's side of the line, start to drum a helpless tattoo on the ground... a kind of percussive death rattle.</p><p>“No,” Malcolm chokes out, “no, stop -“</p><p>He crawls forward, along the length of the man’s body. He feels like he might pass out at any second. “Dad... dad, stop! Don't!” He tugs at Martin’s arm, trying to pull him off, and Martin finally pauses. <em>They haven’t been this close in years</em>, Malcolm realises in numb horror; his father’s arm is tense under his fingers, his eyes alight and only inches from his own. Martin relaxes his hands around Hulk’s neck.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry, my boy… Did you want to do the honours?”</p><p>“No,” croaks out Malcolm. “Don’t… don’t kill him…”</p><p>Martin looks at him as if he’s speaking Mandarin… and then his eyes move beyond him, widening in alarm.</p><p>Something smashes into the side of Malcolm’s head, and the world goes black.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. One Way Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>Talking.</em>
</p><p>Someone is talking. He doesn’t recognise the voice.</p><p>Then someone else speaks, and this time he does.</p><p>… <em>dad…</em></p><p>His father’s voice, drifting towards him from somewhere far away.</p><p>His head feels heavy. His chin presses against his chest. He squints his eyes slowly open...</p><p>His legs stretch out before him, feet pointing neatly at the red line across his father’s cell. His back rests against the door. He tries to bring a hand up to his head, to feel the tender hotspot currently thumping out pain through the rest of his skull, but his hands jerk to a stop. He manages to focus on them, blinking at the thick bracelets of material - <em>torn from his father’s bedsheet</em>, he realises<em> - </em>wrapped snugly around each wrist, a pair of handcuffs fitted tightly on top.</p><p><em>No marks</em>, he thinks foggily.</p><p>And then: <em>he's so screwed.</em></p><p>A hand fists in his hair and his bleary gaze is dragged upright, to Ginger’s face smiling maliciously down at him. “Payback’s a bitch,” the man says, in a nasal voice that’s doing nothing for his headache right now. Malcolm feels<em> awful</em>, groggy and sick and aching, but…</p><p>
  <em>He’s not dead. Why isn’t he dead?</em>
</p><p>The hand releases him and he takes in the rest of the cell. His father, standing by the far wall, looking supremely pissed. Hulk lies sprawled at his feet, the angle of his neck all wrong. He’s dead.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe if he closes his eyes, he can go back to nothingness. That would be better, than <span class="u">this</span>…</em>
</p><p>“Ah, ah. Wakey wakey, sunshine. You can sleep when you’re dead, and that ain't gonna be long,” smirks Ginger. He looks back to Martin, to whatever conversation they were having before Malcolm crawled back into consciousness. “Is that your final answer?”</p><p>Martin’s eyes dart to Malcolm - <em>and what is that look? Apology?</em> His mind is cloudy, unable to make sense of what’s happening… and then he’s eye to eye with Ginger, the man’s pale green eyes glinting with far too excitement for Malcolm’s liking. <em>Hulk was the muscle</em>, he realises in a sudden bolt of clarity. <em>T</em><em>his guy… this guy probably </em><span class="u"><em>volunteered</em></span><em>. </em>“Time for a little warm up,” says Ginger playfully… and then both of his pale hands are wrapping around Malcolm’s neck.</p><p>His hands jerk up again automatically, trying to break Ginger’s grip, to push him away, but the handcuffs are secured to his own belt by another loop of cloth - a sick parody of the set up his father wears. He’s never quite appreciated how incapacitating it is until <em>right now. </em>All he can do is stare desperately into that smiling face, at those eyes dilating with pleasure, as the man’s fingers gouge into his throat. <em>No,</em> he tries to say, and nothing comes out —</p><p>The hands relax, letting him suck in a breath, and then press again even tighter - not just cutting off his air but his blood-flow too, brilliant flashes staining his vision as they <em>squeeze</em>. His feet scrabble against the floor, hands clawing helplessly where they’re trapped at his stomach. The man leans in closer, his smile stretching across Malcolm’s vision, filling up the world —</p><p>Then Ginger's standing up, releasing him. Malcolm slumps over in a fit of wheezing and coughing. He feels too wrecked to even contemplate sitting up again without some serious assistance.</p><p>“I told you,” Martin is snarling, “I can’t remember the details - that’s why I wrote it down!”</p><p>“Mr Endicott isn’t very happy with that answer,” says Ginger smugly. “Good thing we’ve got all night to change your mind.” And finally, the pieces all slot into place in Malcolm’s mind as he lies there, prostrate beneath the gaze of the CCTV.</p><p>“Oh… <em>god</em>…”</p><p>He starts giggling helplessly, unable to stifle it with his hands trapped at his waist. Ginger spins round and looks at him with deep suspicion.</p><p>“You lost it already? I did hit you pretty hard…”</p><p>“You’re… gonna torture <em>me</em>… to get <em>him</em> to talk?” he gasps, because <em>isn’t this just the most perfect thing to have happened in all his life?</em> “<em>That’s</em> your plan? You think…” He breaks off into a fit of coughing that dissolves into more breathless laughter.</p><p>Ginger glares at him, annoyed. He strolls back to Malcolm’s side and doles out a kick. “Quit that.”</p><p>“Malcolm,” says his father warningly. Malcolm tries to gulp back the wave threatening to overwhelm him, not even sure if it’s laughter or hysterical sobbing that he’s trying to squash down -</p><p>“What’s so funny?” demands Ginger, and Malcolm has to bite back the words threatening to spill out of him, the desire to point out that <em>his father’s a psychopath, you fucking moron! </em>He meets Martin’s eyes across the cell, where the man is doing a passable imitation of concern, and reminds himself sharply that it doesn’t matter whether his father is affected by Ginger’s little performance or not. It doesn’t <em>matter</em> if he cares, or if Malcolm getting tortured is going to cause him about as much pain as a hangnail… <em>because as soon as his father gives up his secret, </em><span class="u"><em>both</em></span><em> of them are dead.</em></p><p>The thought settles like a stone in his stomach and, unsurprisingly, works to sober him. “Nothing,” he manages. “This just… isn’t how I pictured my evening going.”</p><p>Ginger seems satisfied with this. He drags Malcolm into an upright slump against the wall again. Malcolm sits there, his hand starting to shake at his waist as he realises he has <span class="u">no</span> plan. No way out of this. The cell is soundproofed, probably guarded by more of Endicott’s men. No one is coming to help them. He can only survive as long as he can, do his best while Endicott watches him suffer from a goddamn <em>iPad</em> in his mother’s sitting room, but the end… the end looks inevitable. <em>One way out. </em>In a body bag; a tragic story to be splashed over tomorrow’s papers. He’ll be dead, his father will be dead…</p><p>And after everything Malcolm’s done to get away from him, he’ll forever be remembered as Martin Whitly’s final victim.</p><p><em>His mom…</em> the news will kill her, and it’s that thought flashing across his mind that spurs him into at least <em>trying</em>, even though he knows it’s futile.</p><p>“You know your boss doesn’t care if you live or die?” he rasps. “Is he really worth risking this amount of jail time for? He’ll kill you, once you’re done with us. He’s not a man who likes loose ends.”</p><p>“Shut up,” murmurs Ginger distractedly. “I don’t need to hear anything from you. It’s your pop here who’s gotta do the talking.”</p><p>“You see? This is what mercy gets you, Malcolm,” Martin spits. “You should have snapped his neck when you had the chance.” Ginger cackles. He crouches down to slip an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders.</p><p>“Aww… did you spare my life, sweetheart? How can I make it up to you?”</p><p>“I can think of a few things,” grits out Malcolm, and Ginger chuckles fondly, ruffling his hair. All Malcolm can do is glower at him. He wrenches futilely at the cuffs.</p><p>“For the last time,” snaps Martin, “I <em>can’t</em> <em>tell you</em> what I <em>don’t remember</em>. What exactly is it about that that's so hard for you to grasp?”</p><p>“Guess I’ll have to jog your memory, then,” says Ginger calmly. “I think your boy here’s gonna bring it all rushing back to you. Unfortunately some of the more fun stuff’s ruled out… we don’t want to tip off the coroner about we got up to in here. But I’m confident I can make this work with what we’ve got.”</p><p>Martin glances back to him, and all Malcolm can do is stare up at him, wide-eyed. Despite everything, part of him desperately wants his father to do something to save him. <em>Believes </em>that he might. He can’t turn it off, can’t shut it down. It sits there stubbornly in his chest, a little untarnished nugget of hope and idiocy that only somehow makes this all more painful.</p><p><em>You never learn, do you? You <span class="u">know</span> he doesn’t care what happens to you, </em>whispers the clinical part of his mind. <em>You’re just a handy little prop that’s delaying his own execution. He’ll probably try and drag this out for as long as he possibly can…</em></p><p>“Let’s… just think about this,” tries Martin, spreading his hands in appeal. “If it’s not money you want, perhaps there’s something else? Come on now… every man wants <em>something</em>.” He glares at Ginger’s continued silence. “What, you want me to guess?”</p><p>“Your dad’s really full of shit, ain’t he?” says Ginger conversationally, and then he’s dragging Malcolm upright on wobbly legs, pulling him forward to stand by the red line. “You watching carefully, pops?”</p><p>Martin’s face contorts into a snarl. “Oh, you are going to regret this,” he seethes. “I have <em>all kinds</em> of ideas saved up, and I’m going to use them <em>all </em>on you…”</p><p>Ginger presses up behind Malcolm, wrapping an arm around his chest, his other hand coming to curl around his throat. “You ready to put on a show for your daddy?” he whispers. “And whoever else might be watching…” He swings them round, so that Malcolm is briefly positioned directly in front of the camera, that beady little red dot blinking down at him.</p><p>“Fuck you, and fuck your boss,” he manages, but his tremor seems to have extended to his entire body and Ginger knows he’s scared. <em>It’s why he looks so goddamn delighted.</em></p><p>“Get <em>your hands… </em>off <em>my son,</em>” hisses Martin, and Ginger pivots back so that Malcolm is eye to eye with his father. He’s starting to feel like a piece of meat a pack of dogs is fighting over. He’d be more outraged, if he wasn’t half-numb with horror. The hand flexes over his throat and Ginger laughs.</p><p>“How ‘bout if I just use the one hand?”</p><p>Fingers dig into Malcolm’s throat and the world is reduced down to crushing pressure; to the tunnelling darkness of his vision. He thinks he might lose his footing, but Ginger’s grip holds him upright. He can hear Martin spitting out curses, his footsteps striding forwards, the <em>clang</em> of the tether as it’s yanked taut. “Close, but no cigar,” taunts Ginger from beside his left ear.</p><p>The pressure releases and Malcolm stumbles, held back from the red line by Ginger’s grip around his chest. His head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. He coughs, every hack sending another bolt of pain through his head and his abused throat, before he’s finally recovered his breath and can look up to see Martin standing in front of him. “Well, this is fun,” he croaks and some emotion flashes over his father’s face, too fast for him to have any hope of identifying it.</p><p>“I could do this all evening,” says Ginger, and the sounds that Hulk made earlier - the contorted gape of his mouth, the wild popping of his eyes - all fill Malcolm’s head in sickening technicolour. <em><span class="u">Anything</span> but that. </em>The words are coming out of his mouth before he’s had time to think through if they’re a good idea -</p><p>“You don’t think… it might blow your cover story… when they find your handprints all over my throat?”</p><p>Ginger’s grip falters. “Good point,” he mutters… and then Malcolm’s legs are kicked out from under him. He lands heavily on his side, head ricocheting off the floor and he groans.</p><p>“You’re dad’s a real cool customer, isn’t he?” says Ginger conversationally from above him. “Normally they get hysterical. ‘<em>Please, no!’</em> Tears and snot, the whole works… which makes me think that maybe your pop isn’t quite grasping the <em>urgency</em> of this situation.” He grabs something from beyond Malcolm’s line of vision. “So… we’re gonna have to work a little harder. You and me, kid - you ready?”</p><p>“Wait,” tries Malcolm pointlessly, and Ginger stomps down on his stomach, turning his words into a high-pitched whine of agony. He tries to curl in on himself, but Ginger is pushing him flat against the floor, planting a knee across his chest. <em>Stop</em>, he tries to say, but he can’t get the breath - he can barely expand his chest, and Ginger leans over him —</p><p>The world goes white. Coarse fabric presses down over his nose, his forehead, his chin - it scrapes against his eyelashes — the weight comes off his chest for a second and Malcolm <em>screams</em>, the cloth stretching over his mouth as it’s drawn tight across his face. A hand lands on either side of his head, keeping the sheet in place as Malcolm bucks frantically, until the man’s weight is back on his chest, crushing him against the floor. He tries to drag in air but the sheet is too thick; pressing against his skin like a death mask, so tight he can’t even turn his head. The sensation is panic-inducing; horrifying - he can’t see, can’t move, can’t <em>breathe</em> —</p><p>Someone’s yelling but he doesn’t know what they’re saying. Malcolm’s yelling but it’s muffled, garbled - he can hear Ginger <em>laughing </em>and it’s terrifying, the sound bubbling close to his ear —</p><p>The bedsheet is whipped off his face and he tries to suck in air frantically. The man’s full weight is still compressing his lungs; it’s like breathing through a straw. His ears are ringing, blood pounding in his temples and he must be bright red, flushed with panic and near-asphyxiation...</p><p>“Aren’t you a smart one?” beams Ginger, looking down at him in delight. “It ain’t even gonna leave a mark.”</p><p>“No,” he manages around a shuddering gasp of air, “stop -”</p><p>“Not up to you, kid.” Ginger pats his cheek consolingly. “Ask your dad.”</p><p>His father shouts something, something he can’t make out over the thump of his pulse in his ears. His eyes slide over to where Martin stands poised on the edge of the red line. His hands are clenched in the cuffs; his eyes fixed on Ginger; his face contorted in a snarl of rage.<em> You’d almost think he cares,</em> observes a tiny voice in the back of Malcolm’s mind -</p><p>- and then the sheet is pressed back over his face, mercilessly tight, smothering. The man shifts his weight, and his freed hand comes to grasp Malcolm’s face through the material. “Hold still now,” he coos, and then a grey shadow falls over the white world. Something presses over his lips where they’re mashed against the cotton…</p><p><em>A kiss.</em> The man just<em> kissed </em>him through the sheet<em> -</em> and Malcolm tries to scream again in fury, in sheer horror, but it he doesn’t have the breath for it. More laughter echoes above him, blending with the roaring in his skull…</p><p>This time he’s not sure of the exact moment the sheet is removed. He’s just aware of his lungs painfully expanding again as the weight finally lifts from his chest. He can barely focus; his head lolls against the floor as Ginger looms over him, gripping his chin so they’re eye to eye.</p><p>“Did you enjoy that one more?” grins Ginger. Malcolm snarls weakly, trying to pull out of his grasp. The man’s hands are like ice against his burning skin. “That ain’t a healthy colour, kid. Hey,” Ginger says, twisting to address Martin, “weren’t you a doctor? He meant to be that colour?”</p><p>Malcolm can’t hear his father’s response; he can’t see if he looks genuinely worried. He’s not sure he cares either way right now; lack of oxygen is making the world fuzz around him. His eyes list closed, until Ginger slaps him round the face. “I told you, it ain’t time to sleep yet,” he chides.</p><p>“Ff…fuck you,” he manages, trying to glare up at him. Ginger pinches his cheek.</p><p>“Ain’t you adorable, playing the tough guy? Ready to go again? Unless daddy’s got anything to tell us… No?”</p><p>And then Ginger’s weight is back on his chest, the sheet yanked taut across his face - and he’s snow-blind, wrapped in white before he can even process it. His skin is burning as the cloth presses in, muffling his senses, trapping him in a world of white noise and <em>no air. </em>He can hear sounds from beyond his cocoon, that might be laughter or shouting or his own unsteady heart, pounding louder and louder... but it's like hearing them from underwater. It's all blurred and distant: all that's real is the stifling sheet, the crushing weight on his chest... like someone's gripped his lungs in one giant fist and is <em>squeezing…</em></p><p>The sheet comes off a third time, just as Malcolm’s slipping into unconsciousness. The air of the cell revives him; suddenly it’s deliciously cool on his skin. His vision is blurred, but it’s clear enough to make out Ginger leaning over him.</p><p>“Nuh,” he croaks. He means <em>no more</em>, but the words won’t come.</p><p>Cold hands clasp either side of his face. Fingers curl in his sweaty hair, holding him eye to eye with his tormentor.</p><p>“You know… I don’t even mind if it takes your dad a little while to remember,” Ginger whispers, watching with naked fascination as Malcolm struggles to scrape in air. “I didn’t know you’d turn such pretty colours…”</p><p>There’s a <em>click</em> and Ginger freezes. It takes Malcolm a moment to understand why; to register the barrel of the gun that has somehow materialised and is pressed against Ginger’s temple. Malcolm’s eyes flick weakly from the gun… along the arm… up to the man standing over them, his face a mask of fury.</p><p>“<em>Get the hell away from him,”</em> snarls Gil.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. And Breathe...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Get <em>the hell</em> away from him,” snarls Gil. His gun is perfectly steady, notes Malcolm hazily, but his voice is <em>shaking</em> with rage.</p><p>Ginger’s lifting his hands, rising to his feet, saying something that Malcolm can’t make out from down on the floor. He takes the opportunity to wheeze in the air he’s been so desperately craving. He tries to focus on Gil, but Gil is busy, his eyes on Ginger, his face twisted with fury and<em> wow, Gil is <span class="u">pissed</span>, </em>he thinks dazedly, <em>he’s never </em><span class="u"><em>seen</em></span><em> Gil look so </em><em>pissed</em><em>…</em></p><p>And then Gil’s thrown a punch that sends Ginger slamming into the wall, spinning him and slapping cuffs onto one of his wrists. He drags Ginger out of view… Malcolm manages to roll on the floor, to see Gil pushing him down, cuffing his other hand around the iron bed leg in the far corner of the cell.</p><p><em>Gil</em>, he tries to say, but he doesn’t have breath to call out.</p><p>It turns out, he doesn’t need to. The second Ginger is secured, Gil’s at his side, dropping to his knees beside him.</p><p>“Jesus, kid -”</p><p>“Gil,” he tries again. He tries to sit but his stomach muscles aren’t having any of it. Quickly, Gil’s arms are around him, easing him up gently, setting him back against the cell wall.</p><p>“Deep breaths… that’s it, nice and slow…” His hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently, looking at him in barely-veiled alarm.</p><p>“‘m… ok,” he wheezes. Gil shushes him gently and starts unbuttoning his collar, loosening his tie.</p><p>“Don’t try and talk, ok? Just get some air, kid. Focus on your breathing. That’s right.” Gil’s hand, normally so warm but now cool against his flushed skin, cups his cheek and Malcolm closes his eyes, leaning into the touch as the world slowly swims into focus back around him. <em>He’s ok. Gil’s here, and he can breathe again. It’s all ok. </em>For a few minutes, he can’t think beyond that.</p><p>The hand finally moves away and Malcolm’s eyes fly open, irrationally alarmed at the idea the man might disappear again, but Gil gives him a reassuring smile. “Gimme a second.” He heads back to where Ginger is slumped sullenly against the bed and rifles roughly through his pockets. Then he’s kneeling down before Malcolm again, unlocking the cuffs from around his wrists, unknotting the fabric below.</p><p>“Better?” he asks, and when Malcolm nods he huffs out a relieved breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Thank God. Where are you hurt?” His eyes are scanning him, no doubt taking in the bruising on his face and throat.</p><p>“Nothing… serious,” Malcolm promises. He manages to bring a hand up to Gil’s arm and squeeze it, a flood of gratitude washing over him at being delivered from what was promising to be an agonising, lingering death.Gil’s eyes are full of worry.</p><p>“What the hell happened, kid?”</p><p>“He was…You… if you hadn’t…“ He swallows back a sob. He feels half-unravelled, all his emotions embarrassingly close to the surface… because somehow Gil <em>saved</em> him, from out of nowhere, and it’s so unexpected he can’t even <em>begin</em> to process it -</p><p>Before he can crumple completely, Gil's pulling him into a hug. Malcolm clings to him, trying to get his racing heart to calm a little. <em>Not dead,</em> he thinks dazedly, <em>not today, </em>and he lets himself be steadied in Gil’s arms until he feels stronger. After a minute he forces himself to pull back, wiping his eyes. “I’m ok. I’m good,” he says, partly for his own benefit.</p><p>“Well, this is very moving,” cuts in his father’s voice acidly, floating over from somewhere behind Gil. Malcolm flinches, realising his father will have been jealously watching and analysing his every interaction with the older man. “I hate to ruin the moment, but might I suggest we take care of our little surveillance problem?”</p><p>Gil twists round to deliver an irritated glare in Martin’s direction. Malcolm purposely <em>doesn’t</em> - he can’t bring himself to look at his father yet; not in his current state. He’s got no idea what kind of feelings it might shake loose. All the same, the words deliver a little jolt of panic right to his chest. “The CCTV,” he croaks out. “We have… to go…” Gil frowns.</p><p>“Bright, I’m not sure you going anywhere right now is a great idea. I should be calling an ambulance -“</p><p>“No… not safe,” he insists. “Could be… more of them…”</p><p>“Yeah? Well I’ve got a gun that says no one<em>’</em>s gonna try anything like that again,” says Gil firmly, and something in Malcolm calms at this piece of logic. <em>Even the guards don’t have guns.</em></p><p>He dissolves into a fit of coughing but shakes off Gil’s grip on his arm, nodding to the CCTV above them. “Camera,” he scrapes out, because even if the danger<em> is</em> over, he’s not having Endicott spy on them for a second longer than he can help it. Gil gets to his feet, grabbing the coil of sheet that a few minutes ago was auditioning to be Malcolm’s shroud and, with careful aim, throws it up to drape over the camera. Malcolm nods his thanks and starts to get to his feet. Gil is back at his side in a heartbeat.</p><p>“Steady, kid -“</p><p>“There’s a… bug,” he mutters hoarsely, “he can hear… every word…“</p><p>Gil is looking more bewildered by the second, but after a moment he just nods, clearly deciding to put any reservations on hold for when Malcolm is less agitated. “Ok, ok, just.. take it easy, alright?” He grabs the chair and yanks it over, pushing Malcolm down into it. “Sit. If there’s a bug, I can find it.”</p><p>He glances across the room and then unholsters his gun, placing it in Malcolm’s hand before he moves towards the obvious hiding places - the bookshelves and the table - all on the wrong side of the red line. Malcolm watches as he comes to a stop and says: “move.”</p><p>“Seriously? I’m in cuffs, <em>Lieutenant</em>.” </p><p>“<em>Move,</em>” snarls Gil, clearly unimpressed with whatever role he imagines Martin has taken in all this. Malcolm hears the familiar sound of his father huffing in annoyance before he backs away, leaving Gil to check over the table.</p><p>Martin’s new position brings him closer to Malcolm, and subsequently makes him harder to ignore. “Malcolm,” he says earnestly. “Malcolm? Look at me.”</p><p>Malcolm doesn’t. He doesn’t know why, but he <em>can’t</em>.</p><p>“Let me check you over,” suggests Martin. “You need a doctor.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he says automatically.</p><p>“Really? Then why won’t you look at me?”</p><p>Malcolm swallows. After a beat, he drags his gaze up… up from the red line, up past the cuffs and the cardigan, to his father’s face. To his surprise, he doesn’t feel much at all.</p><p>His father locks eyes with him. “Malcolm… my boy… I was so worried…“</p><p>“Can you -" he stops himself, cuts himself off when his voice comes out higher and more agitated than he wants. He takes a deep breath. “Can you just <em>not</em>?”</p><p>“A father can’t express concern for his own son?” asks Martin incredulously. “My boy… I’d have done <em>anything</em> to stop that… if I could. I had no choice! You must see that? If I’d given them what they were after, we’d both be dead!”</p><p>Malcolm can see the tension in Gil’s posture from across the room. The man is carefully keeping his back to them, trying to give him the illusion of privacy in the small space, but there’s no way he can’t hear every word. <em>God knows what he’s thinking.</em></p><p>“I know that,” he manages. “We really… don’t have to talk about it.” Martin studies him for a moment - Malcolm wishes he’d turn his attention somewhere else - and then nods, apparently satisfied.</p><p>“Well… good. That’s good. As long as you understand that. You were… very brave,” he adds, as if sensing he should say more and Malcolm closes his eyes, wanting the floor to swallow him, wanting to be <em>anywhere else</em>.</p><p>“Got it,” says Gil, mercifully interrupting. He holds up the tiny bug, apparently concealed behind the desk and drops it to the floor, stamping it into oblivion. “Now how about someone tells me what the hell is going on here?”</p><p>Martin raises an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t <em>know?</em> You just stumbled in at the right moment? I suppose that is your M.O.” Gil gives Martin a withering look which Martin seems to enjoy, but he looks affronted when he sees Malcolm’s glare. “What?! I’m just saying, he happened to wander in at the right time. Excuse me if I don’t throw him a parade.”</p><p>“He saved my life,” Malcolm points out coldly - not just because it’s true, but because he knows the words will rankle. Sure enough, Martin grimaces.</p><p>“Yes, well… of <em>course</em> I’m grateful for <em>that</em>, Malcolm. I’d have stopped him myself if I wasn’t <em>handcuffed </em>to a<em> wall</em>. And I did suggest taking him out of the picture earlier...” He shrugs when Malcolm’s glare only intensifies.</p><p>“Endicott had the cell bugged,” says Malcolm. “He must have suspected… Dr Whitly” - his father rolls his eyes at the address - “might be about to… incriminate him…” He dissolves into a fit of coughing that brings Gil back to his side, looking concerned. “I’m… fine,” he manages, but his throat is not taking the abuse it’s received in the last hour lightly, and he ends up gesturing to Martin impatiently. “Could you..?”</p><p>Martin looks like he’d rather not deign to explain anything to Gil, but nonetheless rattles off a summary of their call with Endicott while Gil’s face moves through various shades of incredulity. When Martin gets to the part where they were torturing Malcolm to get him to talk, Gil looks like he’s going to throw up.</p><p>“Jesus,” he breathes. “You weren’t kidding about the guy having reach. After you called me about Endicott, I decided to head over here -“</p><p>Malcolm blinks in confusion. “Wait… why?”</p><p>Gil shrugs. “I thought… I just wanted to check in on you,” he says, by way of explanation, and Malcolm feels a glow of warmth in his chest that despite everything, despite him ignoring the man’s advice and barging ahead anyway, Gil had still come to see if he was ok. “And when I got that second call… I came as fast as I could. No one was picking up at the front desk and when I got here, they said you hadn’t left the building… so I insisted on coming to speak to you myself.”</p><p>“They let you bring a gun?”</p><p>“They weren’t exactly what I’d call <em>happy</em> with the situation… but neither was I,” says Gil. “Anyway, halfway here and the guy escorting me drops behind and tries to go for my firearm.”</p><p>“There’s <em>more</em> of them,” breathes Malcolm, horrified.</p><p>“Technically, there’s one <em>less </em>of them now,” says Gil. “I knocked him out, took his keys and… here I am.” He sighs, resting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Thank God I decided to come by.”</p><p>“Yes yes, we’re all delighted you decided to join us,” snaps Martin, “but if we could move <em>past</em> the self-congratulation stage of the evening, might I suggest we come up with a strategy that gets us out of this<em> alive?</em>”</p><p><em>Us.</em> Malcolm’s heart sinks. “No… Gil, he’s gonna know you came here! Endicott will come after you too.” <em>Because of </em><span class="u"><em>him</em></span><em>. </em>The idea makes him feel sick.</p><p>“He can try,” says Gil grimly. “Kid, don’t worry about me - let’s just focus on getting you looked over.”</p><p>“World class doctor, standing right here,” points out Martin.</p><p>“I’m fine,” insists Malcolm impatiently, “but none of us are gonna be for much longer if we don’t get ahead of Endicott. We don’t know how many more of the guards are in his pocket.”</p><p>Gil looks at him, perplexed. “Kid, I know he caught us by surprise here, but he can’t own the entire staff. You really think there’s gonna be more than <em>three</em> of them in here<em>?</em>”</p><p>“I think there’s a high chance there’ll be more of them showing up the moment Endicott checks his video feed and notices neither of us are dead,” says Malcolm. Gil gapes at him.</p><p>“This is insane,” he says, “Bright, we’re in a <em>maximum security facility</em> - you need to be on the visitor’s list just to get through the door -“</p><p>“Not if the guy on the door works for Endicott. And given he’s been listening in on Dr Whitly for weeks and has obviously had this planned for a while… I’d say the odds are more than likely.”</p><p>A giggle floats over from the far side of the room. It shivers down Malcolm’s spine, makes his fingers curl into fists. <em>Ginger</em>. Gil glares across the room to where the man sits, cuffed on the floor, blood dribbling down his chin from his split lip. “Shut up,” he barks, but that only sets the man off harder.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he sniggers, “it’s just fun, listening to you figure out just how dead you are. Did you really think you’d saved your little friend there? You’re just dragging this out longer.”</p><p>Gil strides over until he’s looking directly down at the man. “For your own good, I’d stop talking now,” he says coldly… but Ginger just twists his neck so that he can make direct eye contact with Malcolm. He gives him a red-stained grin.</p><p>“Sorry, sweetheart. Just telling it like it is. Give it an hour and you’ll be wishing you’d stuck with me. The fun we would have had -”</p><p>Gil’s fist snaps out before Malcolm can even register it. Ginger’s head ricochets off the metal bedpost and then the man slumps forward, unconscious. But his words are still ringing in Malcolm’s ears, cutting through the remains of the fog clinging to his brain. He stumbles to his feet, hand shaking around the gun.</p><p>“Gil, we need to <em>move</em> -" because Gil doesn’t look nearly worried enough, he doesn’t <em>understand - </em>he didn’t hear the absolute confidence in Endicott’s voice —</p><p>“Just hang on a second.” Gil holds up a hand, cutting him off, but his tone is soothing. “I hear you, but don’t you think if more are coming we’re best off staying put til help gets here?” He gestures at the cell. “There’s only one way in and out. We’ll be able to see anyone coming. I’ve got the keys - I can lock us in.”</p><p>Malcolm considers, trying to put aside the swell of panic that comes from the idea of being <em>locked in</em> with his father -</p><p>“You’re not the only one with keys, Lieutenant.” Somehow his father manages to make Gil's rank sound like an insult. “<em>Here</em> is where Endicott is expecting us to be. If we stick around, we’ll be sitting ducks.”</p><p>“He’s right,” admits Malcolm. “Our best bet is to move - head for the exits - maybe slip through their fingers all together. We don’t know how many of them are coming…”</p><p>“<em>So</em>,” continues Martin smugly, as if Malcolm agreeing with him is a personal victory, “unless you have something to barricade that door or a <em>lot </em>of spare ammo… I’d suggest we get moving.”</p><p>Gil’s eyebrows shoot up his head. “Hold up, <em>we?? </em><span class="u">No</span>. Over my dead body.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t tempt me...”</p><p>“<em>You</em> are not getting out of this cell!”</p><p>“What, you’re just going to leave me here to die?! My life is in <em>danger</em> - isn’t it your <em>job</em> to protect people like me? Potential murder victims??”</p><p>Gil’s eyes flash. “Oh, <em>you’re</em> a victim? I must have missed that part. Here was me thinking one of your serial killer buddies had almost gotten your son killed, <em>again!</em>”</p><p>Malcolm flinches. His headache is suddenly crowding back into his skull at full force as Martin moves closer to Gil, practically snarling. Gil meets his gaze head on.</p><p>“Don’t you take the high ground with me! You think you can walk out of here with <em>my son</em>? Is this your plan to get me out of the picture for good? Looks like your Lieutenant isn’t as squeaky clean as you thought, Malcolm,” Martin sneers. “Only he doesn’t have the guts to try and kill me himself - he just has to wait for one of Endicott’s men to do it —“</p><p>“Stop!”</p><p>Malcolm’s shout has both men falling silent. His chest is heaving as if he’s the one been yelling, the gun practically rattling in his hand. He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to get himself under control.</p><p>“See?” mutters Martin, “you’ve upset him -“</p><p><em>“Shut up! </em>Just - <em>stop talking,</em>” snarls Malcolm. He turns to Gil, taking a calming breath, trying to ignore the concern radiating off the older man. “Gil, he… he’s right. We can’t leave him here.”</p><p>Gil’s eyes widen and Malcolm feels like he might be about to throw up. He forces himself to carry on as calmly as he can. “Endicott’s put a bounty on his head. If we don’t take him with us… we’d be condemning him to torture and death. There’s no way he’ll get out of this alive.”</p><p>Gil’s jaw clenches. He looks supremely unhappy with Malcolm’s conclusion, and Malcolm is <em>right there</em> with him.The idea that his father needs <em>protection</em> is so alien he can barely stomach it. Every instinct in his body wants to put as much distance between himself and his father as humanly possible…</p><p><em>What gave Ginger the idea to torture </em><span class="u"><em>him</em></span><em>, instead of Martin Whitly?</em> whispers that cold little voice in his head. <em>What did Martin say while Malcolm was unconscious? </em>He pushes the thought back down where it crawled up from - he doesn’t <em>know </em>that, not for sure. His father <em>had</em> seemed genuinely angry. Whether that was at being defied, or because some tiny part of him feels some kind of warped love for Malcolm, or it was all just part of some act… <em>that’s the kind of question he can’t afford to be distracted by right now</em>, he decides sternly.</p><p>Apparently blissfully unaware of the effect he’s having on him, Martin bounces on his heels. “There we go then! The matter’s settled.” He gives Malcolm a smile that seems to curdle his insides, happily ignoring the death glare Gil is currently levelling at him. “You can always count on <em>family</em> to have your back. Lead the way, my boy!”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Courtesy Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Martin holds out his cuffed hands expectantly. “Well? We haven’t got all day.”</p><p>“Bright,” grits out Gil, “a word?” His hand lands on Malcolm’s shoulder and steers him towards the door. Martin rattles his handcuffs impatiently.</p><p>“Hey! Come on now - that’s just rude -!“</p><p>The door cuts off the rest of his words. It’s just the two of them, in the narrow corridor outside the cell, and Malcolm slumps with relief to have a steel door between himself and his father. For a second he thinks Gil is going to try and talk him out of bringing Martin along with them... but instead he just huffs out a sigh and folds his arms.</p><p>“Kid… you really want us to take your father <em>out</em> of prison?”</p><p>“<em>Into</em> police custody,” says Malcolm, weakly. “And no. It’s pretty much the <em>last </em>thing I want. I just… I don’t see any other way. I’m sorry,” he adds helplessly, but Gil doesn’t look angry. He’s watching him with undisguised concern.</p><p>“Don’t be sorry. None of this is your fault.”</p><p>“Really? I’m the one who went in there, demanding he talk about Endicott,” says Malcolm bitterly. “I brought this down on us… on <em>you</em>. Gil, I’m so sorry - I had no idea -“</p><p>“There are plenty of people I’m pissed at for this situation, and <em>you</em> are not one of them,” says Gil firmly. “But if bringing your father along means us getting out of here in one piece… then I’m on board.” Malcolm nods.</p><p>“Thanks,” he whispers. He closes his eyes, wishing away his headache and the prickle of tears he can feel trying to burst free. Gil’s hand lands on his shoulder again, giving a comforting squeeze and he tries to get his emotions in check. “Sorry,” he says again, giving him a weak smile. “This whole situation is just… a nightmare.”</p><p>“Not for much longer,” Gil says reassuringly. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up in front of Malcolm, like he’s about to perform a magic trick. “Now, watch and learn.” He dials:</p><p>“Powell? I’m calling for back up.” He smirks at Malcolm. “I’ll explain later, but right now we need an extraction team at Claremont Psychiatric. Yeah… Fast, and off the radar - I don’t want anyone on the payroll here to know you’re coming. Bright and I might be in a spot of trouble…Yeah. We’re ok, we’re gonna try and head for the exit now, but there may be hostiles on route. Mm hmm. Keep me posted.”</p><p>He hangs up. “See how easy that was?”</p><p>“Huh. I guess I should probably try that some time.”</p><p>“You think?” Gil’s eyes land on the window behind Malcolm, where Martin is waiting. All trace of amusement vanishes from his face. “Ok. I’ll take point, keep an eye out for any more guards. You keep an eye on your father.” Malcolm nods. The knowledge that the rest of their team are coming helps to lessen the tension bunched in his muscles; to calm some of the panic he can feel thrumming just under the surface of his skin</p><p>Martin looks displeased when they re-enter the cell. He’s even more displeased when Gil is the one to step forward. “You try anything,” Gil says flatly, “even once, and I don’t care how many assassins are after you. We’ll leave you here and go.”</p><p>Martin pulls a face. His expression only darkens when Gil unfastens the belt from the tether, and the cuffs from the belt, but leaves the cuffs themselves in place. “Are you serious? How exactly am I meant to defend myself if we come across one of them?”</p><p>“Lucky for you, you have an armed police escort,” says Gil, holding out his hand for the gun. “Ok. Follow my lead.”</p><p>Malcolm nods…</p><p>... and Martin steps over the red line.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Dr Whitly’s cell has always been an eccentric little oddity nestled at the heart of Claremont Psychiatric. Malcolm still remembers how vast and empty it felt when he first start visiting his father as a boy. The blank walls - what had felt like vast space on either side of the cage; a Hannibal Lecter-like set up that had featured in so many of his childhood nightmares. The sort of cage he saw in storybooks about the zoo, where they kept the lions. His father had always been so <em>big</em>, the glowing epicentre of every room, the smartest and funniest and warmest person little Malcolm could think of in the whole world. But in the cage, he’d looked different. Wilder, somehow. <em>Dangerous.</em> Malcolm had forgotten that, as the room had transformed into the dark-walled, carpeted, gentleman’s study that had grown to replace it… but stepping outside, into the corridors of Claremont, he suddenly remembers again.</p><p>It’s the first time he’s seen his father out of that cell since he was ten years old.</p><p>It’s all harsh fluorescent lighting and tiled walls out in the corridors. Even seeing his father under bright lights is disorientating; he’s used to seeing the man by dim, warm lighting, that softens his edges, helps his eyes to twinkle. The lines in his face are more noticeable out here, and his eyes are sharper.</p><p>Gil checks around the corner ahead before giving them both a nod and using the keys to open the security door leading out of the wing. Malcolm’s eyes keep flitting to the CCTV above them, lurking in every high corner. <em>Is Endicott watching them still, scurrying around like rats in his maze?</em> He’s always felt fear, walking into Claremont, but it was the fear of the man now walking in front of him, squatting at the centre of the building like a monster in a cave. The guards and walls and bars and cameras had been intimidating, but reassuring at the same time. Now the very building itself feels hostile… <em>and you’ve helped the monster break free</em>, whispers a voice in his mind.</p><p>“Right here,” says Malcolm, when Gil hesitates. He’s only made this journey a couple of times before. For Malcolm the route is depressingly familiar. He suddenly realises he isn’t even sure if Martin <em>knows</em> the way to the main entrance. He can’t have passed through those doors since he was first brought here.</p><p>There’s not a guard or inmate in sight. They reach the T junction at the end of the corridor. Gil quickly scans both directions, but still, there’s no one. One of the lights is on the fritz: the harsh white flickers and jumps with an angry <em>hissing</em> sound. It seems deafening in the near silence. <em>Isn’t there normally more noise,</em> Malcolm thinks, <em>or is that his paranoia?</em> The distant shouting of prisoners, the clanging of doors, the footsteps of the guards…</p><p>“Gil,” he murmurs, “is it just me, or is this…"</p><p>“It’s weird, kid,” confirms Gil, his voice a low mutter. “Let’s just get to the exit, and then -"</p><p>He freezes, holding up a warning hand for them to both do the same. For a second Malcolm can’t see what he’s spotted…</p><p>… and then he sees the slack hand, the end of an outstretched arm, spilling onto the floor ahead of them from one of the corridors.</p><p>Silent now, they edge closer. Gil keeps his gun at the ready….</p><p>The guard is sprawled face down on the linoleum at their feet, the corridor stretching beyond him, empty. Gil stays in position, keeping an eye out for anyone approaching - but before Malcolm can move any closer -</p><p>“Mr David!”</p><p>Martin drops to his knees beside the guard, hurriedly checking for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he confirms, and then he’s quickly scanning the length of the man’s body, gently probing his scalp for injury. He bends low, pressing his ear against the man’s heartbeat.</p><p>Malcolm stares at him. After a minute, Martin nods in apparent relief. “Looks like he’s just had a <em>nasty</em> bump on the head… but we should leave him in the recovery position, just to be safe. Malcolm, would you…?”</p><p>Slowly, Malcolm crouches down beside the fallen guard and helps to move him onto his side - something that’s tricky for his father to do alone, with his hands cuffed. He can feel Gil’s eyes on him the whole time, but for once, his father seems distracted…</p><p><em>Because he actually cares? Was that </em> <span class="u"><em>concern</em></span> <em> he just saw?</em></p><p>Martin sits back, satisfied. “I mean, in an ideal world we wouldn’t leave him on the floor, but…” He makes a<em> what can you do</em> gesture and turns to Malcolm, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Thank you, my boy.” He must be looking at the man like he’s an alien because after a moment Martin frowns. “Malcolm? Are you…?” His cuffed hands reach out to land on Malcolm’s arm, and Malcolm flinches back like he’s been burned.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he stammers. He gets quickly to his feet, trying to ignore the funny flipping feeling in his chest. <em>He wanted to check the person who’s been his only real company for the last twenty years wasn’t </em><span class="u"><em>dead</em></span><em>, </em>he tells himself sternly. <em>It doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably just worried about the idea of having to break in a new guard. </em>There can’t be any other reason his father had dropped to his knees beside the man in the space of a heartbeat. It certainly doesn’t mean the concern he showed towards <span class="u">him</span> earlier was anything but an act…</p><p>“This is officially giving me the creeps,” mutters Gil, his eyes flicking between corridors. “Bright - which way?”</p><p>“Down here.” They move onwards, Malcolm feeling a stab of guilt for leaving the unconscious guard abandoned on the floor. Mr David has always been kind to him and it seems like poor repayment. They round the curve of the corridor, take the next right —</p><p>The ring of Gil’s phone makes them all flinch. Gil answers without looking at the caller, his eyes fixed on the eerily quiet corridor ahead of them. “Powell?”</p><p>He jerks to a stop.</p><p>Malcolm looks at him in concern, wondering if the team have run into some kind of problem - if they<em> aren’t</em> going to be getting here soon after all. Gil meets his eyes, his jaw clenched in sudden fury, and then Malcolm realises who’s on the other end of the line.</p><p>Calling Gil this time, instead of Malcolm.</p><p>
  <em>His fault.</em>
</p><p>With a jerky, frustrated movement, Gil lowers the phone and hits speaker. “How the hell did you get this number?” he snaps. </p><p>“How the hell did <em>you</em> manage to interrupt my plans for the Whitly boys?” counters Endicott. “My little birds tell me you’ve paid exactly <em>one </em>other visit to the Surgeon in the last ten years, Lieutenant Arroyo. Your timing leaves much to be desired.”</p><p>Gil’s expression tells Malcolm just how little patience he has for this kind of grand-standing. “Well, here I am. And now you have the Head of Major Crimes ready to personally testify against you in a court of law, so I’m guessing your <em>plans</em> are pretty much shot to hell at this point.”</p><p>“You’ve certainly made things more interesting,” murmurs Endicott, and he doesn’t sound nearly as rattled as Malcolm was hoping, “but I do love to improvise. Although… you did ruin quite a show. Your profiler really knows how to take a punch.”</p><p>“Shame your assassins weren’t up to the job,” snaps Malcolm.</p><p>“Malcolm! You’ve got your breath back then,” says Endicott, amused. “You know, I think that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you go without talking.”</p><p>Gil glowers down at the phone. “You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Seeing the older man’s anger reminds Malcolm of the fact the man is toying with them, and they’re letting him. He catches Gil’s eye, gesturing that they should keep moving.</p><p>“And how are you doing, Martin? From what I can tell, so far you haven’t gotten a scratch on you. Always such a slippery customer.”</p><p>“Takes one to know one,” mutters Martin, looking almost as displeased as Gil by Endicott’s call. Malcolm glances up at the CCTV as they start moving again - <em>is Endicott watching the whole prison, or did he only have the feed for the cell? </em>“Is there any reason you bothered to dig up the Lieutenant’s number, or is this a social call?”</p><p>“Call it a courtesy call. We go way back, Martin… and Malcolm… who knows, I might have become your father-in-law, had the situation turned out differently. Lieutenant, I tend not to hold too much respect for the police, given how easy it is to run rings around them… but for you, I’ll make an exception.”</p><p>“Thank God,” says Gil, his eyes searching ahead of them for the main doors. “Otherwise I’d be all broken up about it.”</p><p>“And as a courtesy,” continues Endicott, an edge creeping into his voice, “I wanted to let you know <em>exactly</em> what’s going to happen next.” Malcolm meets Gil’s eyes above the phone screen. He knows him well enough to spot the fear in his eyes, buried under the fury and disgust. <em>They just have to keep cool, and get out of here - Endicott can’t control </em><span class="u"><em>everything</em></span><em> -</em></p><p>They finally reach the end of the corridor, making the turn for the main entrance.</p><p>The door is locked.</p><p>“For starters,” says Endicott smoothly, “you aren’t walking out the front door.”</p><p>Malcolm tries the handle and stifles a growl of frustration when it doesn’t shift. He grabs the guard’s keyring off Gil, but in his gut he already knows none of then will match. This door has <em>always</em> been kept open during visiting hours, manned by a guard. It’s thick iron, the narrow glass porthole so scratched it’s almost impossible to see through. Gil bangs his fist against it. Martin watches, his eyes narrowed, no doubt already calculating his next best escape route.</p><p>“So now what?” asks Malcolm, “you send some more of your men in after us? That didn’t work out so well for you the first time.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re a feisty little thing,” chuckles Endicott and Malcolm’s glare is fit to shatter the phone-screen. “It’s almost a shame to kill you.”</p><p>Gil looks incredulous. “You understand I work at the NYPD? I can have them on the phone in seconds -”</p><p>“And I’m sure they’ll do their best to avenge your deaths,” says Endicott, so unconcerned - and <em>how can he be so unconcerned?</em> <em>What the hell is his plan?</em> “But all the word of a dead man gets me is the attention of the police… and I have that already. It would take something far more concrete to do any real damage… which, as Martin knows, is why we’re in this situation in the first place.”</p><p>Martin has the grace to look sheepish for a whole five seconds.</p><p>“But to answer your question… no, Malcolm. I won’t be wasting any more men on you. Not after the way and you and your father took care of that last one. <em>Ouch</em>. Talk about pot, kettle, black, Lieutenant - if you want to arrest anyone, I’d start with your boy there. Him and his father make quite the murderous little team.”</p><p>Malcolm squeezes his eyes closed. He can imagine his father’s delighted expression; he can feel his face heating in shame and fury. He wants to tell Gil the man is lying, that he didn’t plan for that to happen - that he was defending himself, and knocked the man over the red line - but he won’t give Endicott the satisfaction of doing it in front of him. He grits his teeth, trying to get a hold of himself… when he feels a familiar hand land on his shoulder, its reassuring grip helping to ground him.</p><p>“You see,” continues Endicott, sounding nauseatingly pleased with himself, “I had a realisation, watching you all earlier on CCTV.” There’s a distant noise, like the heavy clanging of metal doors. Malcolm flinches. He twists towards the direction of the sound — just as the lights cut out.</p><p>There’s a second of horrifying pitch blackness... before the emergency lighting weakly flickers into life. It casts a nightmarish red light across their faces. “What the hell,” mutters Gil -</p><p>“No need to panic,” says Endicott’s voice cheerily, rising from the phantom-glow of the phone screen - the brightest source of light they now have. “Just a security breach. Protocol dictates that all entrances and exits are sealed. Unlucky for you, but public safety has to come first.”</p><p>“You can’t just keep us in here forever,” snarls Malcolm, hoping he doesn’t sound as shaken as he feels. Up-lit by the phone’s glow, ghostly in the darkness, Martin closes his eyes, his jaw tight with rage. Malcolm has that familiar feeling of him being one step ahead, of already seeing what’s coming…</p><p>“It won’t be for long, Malcolm. I simply realised… I’ve been going about this all wrong. Why send in killers after you, when you’re already surrounded by America’s finest? The most criminally insane, violent murderers the East Coast has to offer.”</p><p>“You… <em>can’t </em>be serious,” says Gil, his eyes wide. <em>He shouldn’t even be here,</em> Malcolm thinks, <em>it’s because of <span class="u">him</span> that he’s trapped in this horror story…</em></p><p>“That’s right - it’s not just the Surgeon who’s getting out of his cell tonight. Men like that, off the leash for the first time in <em>years… </em>I imagine it’s going to be a bloodbath. God knows what the body count is going to look like. And what a tragedy for the innocent visitors who happened to get caught up in the middle of it…”</p><p>“You’re insane,” whispers Malcolm. Endicott laughs.</p><p>“You can have your professional opinion, Malcolm. I prefer to think of myself as ruthlessly practical. Good luck, boys. You’ve done well to get this far, but the inmates are about to take over the asylum… and I don’t think any of you are going to last very long.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Lockdown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The phone goes dead, and Malcolm has a sickening sense of deja-vu. He’s barely survived one set of impossible odds and now here comes another… only this time, he’s dragged Gil into it too. <em>Ginger was right</em>, he thinks with a touch of hysteria, <em>I should have let him finish me off… this would be done, Gil would be free…</em></p><p>Gil himself is staring down at the phone, momentarily transfixed… before he actually <em>growls</em> with rage and thumbs through the contacts. “Powell?” he barks, wheeling away, almost swallowed by the darkness but for the glow of the phone at his ear. Malcolm watches numbly. <em>Half of his team are still out there</em>, he reminds himself, <em>this isn’t over, they can still survive…</em></p><p>Martin grabs him by the arm and spins him to face him. “Un-cuff me,” he snarls, rattling his wrists in front of Malcolm’s face, snapping him out of his daze. He blinks.</p><p>“What? No, I can’t -“</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” hisses Martin, “you can and you will. This charade has gone on for long enough. If we want to survive this, I need to be able to <em>move!</em>” Malcolm pulls away and Martin shifts tactics rapidly, his gaze now becoming imploring. “Son… you don’t know these people like I do! We’re about to be overrun by god knows how many unhinged <em>serial murderers</em> —“</p><p>“And if I let you go, we’ll have one more.” Martin has the audacity to look outraged. “Gil and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll make sure nothing happens to you -"</p><p>“You want me to rely on <em>him</em> for my safety?! You might as well throw me to the wolves right now! He’d love nothing more than to -"</p><p>“He’s a good man,” snaps Malcolm. “Whatever his personal feelings towards you, he would never -"</p><p>“Oh, don’t be so naive! The <em>second</em> you turn your back, there’ll be a knife in <em>mine</em>!”</p><p>“I’m not having this conversation,” says Malcolm. “Just - give up. It’s not happening.”</p><p>“Malcolm, I’m your <em>family!</em> I’d never let anything happen to you… you must know that.” Martin looks at him earnestly and Malcolm feels a rising nausea, the pounding of a stress headache that comes with any prolonged exposure to his father. “How do you think it felt earlier, watching while that man was choking the life out of you and not being able to do a thing to stop it? I can’t go through that again. Help me protect you. Give yourself one more person to watch your back.”</p><p>“You tried to kill me when I was ten years old,” he grits out. “I don’t need <em>your</em> protection.”</p><p>The rage snaps back into Martin’s eyes like a switch has been flipped. “You were always too stubborn for your own good. I suppose this is your idea of payback for that little incident, is that it? For someone so uptight about murder, you seem remarkably relaxed about putting your own father’s life on the line… but think it through, Malcolm. Do you really want my blood on your hands?”</p><p>Gil is heading back over, pocketing his phone and already looking between him and Martin with a fresh furrow in his brow. “The subject is closed,” Malcolm says hurriedly, not wanting Gil to have to witness any more of his father’s theatrics, but Martin, reliably, ignores his cue.</p><p>“Fine. Just remember... if I die in here, it’ll be on<em> you.</em>”</p><p>“You ok?” asks Gil, pointedly ignoring Martin and fixing his eyes on Malcolm. Malcolm tries to give him a reassuring smile. From the look on Gil’s face, it’s not convincing.</p><p>“I’m fine. Dr Whitly and I were just having a disagreement.” Martin scoffs. “What did Dani say? Are they close?”</p><p>“They’re nearly outside. Only now we’re in lockdown, they can’t exactly stroll in through the front door… and it turns out there’s ‘interference’ with the CCTV feeds.”</p><p>“Endicott,” breathes Malcolm. Gil nods, his jaw tight with frustration.</p><p>“They’ve got no eyes inside the building except us. It means we might have to call in SWAT before they can do anything -<em> if</em> they can do anything. If we really do have a… a riot, or some kind of break-out situation on our hands, then… this just got a whole lot more complicated. Claremont is <em>designed</em> to be escape-proof. Breaching any of the doors might take a while, and we can’t exactly risk the inmates getting out into the city.”</p><p>“So what’s the plan?”</p><p>Gil sighs. “JT’s going to try to get through to someone inside - not that we can trust whoever might pick up the phone. But it might be they get through to someone they can co-ordinate with, if we’re lucky - or negotiate with, if we’re not. Dani’s sending us over a floor-plan of the building. She’s gonna update us when they know more.”</p><p>“What about Endicott?”</p><p>“Oh, that bastard’s getting brought in,” says Gil, his tone pure ice. “He’s under arrest for attempted murder, <em>for starters</em>.”</p><p>“You know he’ll deny the whole thing,” says Malcolm. “His lawyers will probably have him out in a few hours -“</p><p>“Then we’ll find grounds to keep him longer,” snaps Gil. “The man just called me up to brag about nearly <em>killing</em> you, Bright. There is no way I’m letting him walk around out there a second longer than I can help it!”</p><p>Malcolm’s fairly sure there’ll be no way to trace either of the calls made to their phones - and that Endicott wouldn’t have gloated if there was <em>any</em> chance he thought it could come back to bite him later - but he keeps the thought to himself. Gil looks furious enough.</p><p>Martin, of course, isn’t nearly as restrained. “So what, he’s being held on your<em> word</em>? What happens if you end up dead? He walks away again?” He ignores Malcolm’s glare and carries on. “Let’s be honest, even if you live, Lieutenant, he’ll discredit you and get off scot-free. Whatever skeletons you have in your closet -“</p><p>“This is probably hard for you to understand, but not all of us <em>have</em> skeletons in our closets,” says Gil coolly. “Endicott’s not going to dig up anything on me.”</p><p>“Then he’ll plant it. Discrepancies in your bank records… pay offs from petty criminals… hell, he’ll probably have you hooked on your wife’s cancer drugs.” Gil’s eyes flash and Malcolm’s stepping between the two men before he has time to think about it.</p><p>“Don’t you even <em>mention</em> her,” spits Gil, and Martin sneers.</p><p>“I’m just pointing out that if you want Endicott to go down, <em>my survival</em> is your best bet. I have the evidence we need -“</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> the reason we’re stuck in this godforsaken place!”</p><p>Malcolm is cutting in before either of them can say anything else. “We need to move,” he says, hands landing on Gil’s shoulders, trying to drag his attention off Martin. “Gil - don’t let him distract you. Has Dani sent over the floor plans?”</p><p>Gil takes a breath, and steps back. A moment later, he’s holding out the phone, the tiny map pulled up on screen. “Got it”.</p><p>They crowd around. “There’s no point heading for the exits right now,” Gil says, studying the plans. “And I don’t think we’ve got any way to access the control room. Our best bet is to find somewhere defensible and hole up until SWAT can get in.”</p><p>“What about the guards?” asks Malcolm. “The <em>actual</em> guards, not the one’s Endicott’s paid off? They’ll be the first casualties if they don’t get somewhere safe fast.”</p><p>“They can take care of themselves,” says Martin dismissively. “We have enough problems without launching a rescue operation.”</p><p>Gil looks pained at the fact he’s about to agree with Martin. “I hate to say it Bright, but it’s too risky. We wouldn’t know which of them we could trust… which ones are working for Endicott…”</p><p>“I know that,” admits Malcolm, “but Mr David… we just left him in that corridor. If the inmates find him before he wakes up, he’s a dead man. We at least have to go back and get him somewhere safe.”</p><p>“That would be heading back towards the main wing,” says Martin, appalled - apparently recovered from his bout of compassion towards the man earlier. “The direction we should most definitely be <em>avoiding</em>.”</p><p>“We can’t just leave him there to die,” says Malcolm fiercely. Gil nods, even as Martin growls in frustration.</p><p>“Ok. We pick him up, and then circle back and find some place to lie low. Let’s move.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It’s slower going, in the dark. Gil daren’t risk using the flashlight on the phone, for fear of draining the battery. Right now it’s their only way of contacting the outside world.</p><p>He leads the way, gun drawn, Malcolm taking the rear, Martin skulking between them. Gil’s pissed at himself for letting the man push his buttons - <em>he should know better</em>. Malcolm’s doing his best, but Gil knows the kid: he’s looked about three inches away from unravelling ever since they walked the man out of his cell. He’s not sure what he missed between the two of them while he was on the call with Dani, but he’s already made a private vow not to leave the kid alone with his father again if he can possibly help it. The situation is hellish enough without throwing the Surgeon’s mind games into the mix.</p><p>Somewhere in the distance, a heavy door clangs. The sound echoes through the building, making them all flinch. The silence is almost unbearably tense... </p><p>“So, Malcolm,” says Martin softly. He’s edging along behind Gil, his eyes flickering over every shadow. “Are you always this stupidly self-sacrificing in life and death situations? Because if you are, frankly I’m amazed you’ve survived this long in your profession.”</p><p>“It’s not self-sacrificing,” counters Malcolm tersely. “Mr David’s in this situation because of <em>you</em>. Making sure he doesn’t die is the least we can do.”</p><p>“Right. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it when we all die instead on his behalf,” mutters Martin. “Another reason you should un-cuff me, by the way. You need someone who has what it takes to deal with this situation and apparently, that’s not you.”</p><p><em>Leave it, kid</em>, thinks Gil automatically, but Malcolm can’t seem to stop himself, barely restraining himself to a whisper: “What, because I’m not a <em>serial killer </em>I don’t have the skills to survive this?”</p><p>“It’s nothing to do with serial killing - could you stop harping on about serial killing?!”</p><p>“It is kind of the defining feature of your personality,” Malcolm points out acidly. Martin glares.</p><p>“Whereas <em>you…</em> you’ve never shown the slightest interest in murder, have you, Malcolm?” His eyes take on a malevolent glint. “I suppose this squeamishness is all for your benefit, Gil. We were quite the team before you showed up. Took down that guard like well-oiled machine.”</p><p>“That’s not what happened,” says Malcolm tightly, his eyes darting to Gil. “There wasn’t a <em>plan</em> - I never meant for you to kill him -”</p><p>“You could have fooled me. The way you took him down with that kick - so he’d stumble <em>just so, </em>right over the line, right where I was waiting for him… poetry in motion.” The kid seems to shrink in on himself with every word his father utters, and Gil could happily wring the man’s neck.</p><p>“If the kid says that wasn’t the plan, then it wasn’t,” he snaps coldly, and the look of naked gratitude on Malcolm’s face sends another swell of rage through him. <em>The effect his father has on him.</em> “You killed the guy. Leave him out of it.”</p><p>Martin bristles<em>. </em>“How about you, Lieutenant? How many suspects have <em>you </em>shot and killed in the line of duty?” He turns to Malcolm. “I bet twenty three is a <em>conservative</em> estimate - but <em>him</em> you’re happy to have walking around with his hands free…!”</p><p>“We’re not un-cuffing you,” says Gil shortly, refusing to rise to the man’s bait. “Now stop asking.”</p><p>There’s a pause. When Martin speaks again, his voice is soft as velvet.</p><p>“You’re probably wise there, Lieutenant. If I were<em> you…</em> I wouldn’t even be turning my back on me.”</p><p>Gil turns round just for long enough to fix Martin with a look that tells him exactly how unimpressed he is with the man’s threats. “I’ll take my chances,” he sneers. “Now shut up so I can concentrate.”</p><p>And, thank God, the man actually shuts up.</p><p>They creep on in silence, trying not to flinch at every distant echo. There’s the growing sounds of commotion, dimmed by the distance but impossible to ignore all the same; shouts and laughter and banging and Gil’s uncomfortably aware they’re moving closer towards it. It’s so dark they almost trip over Mr David when they finally find him; still slumped where they left him in the corridor. Malcom gives him a gentle shake, but the man doesn’t stir. Gil stifles a sigh of frustration: the kid’s going to have to carry him, and that can only slow them down. Malcolm hooks his arms under the man’s shoulders, Gil covering him with the gun - just as a scream wails out from somewhere beyond.</p><p>Martin swallows. “Sounds like the fun has started without us.”</p><p>Gil pales, but manages to keep his voice steady. “Come on. According to the map, our best bet is to head to the north side of the building.”</p><p>Dragging the dead-weight of the guard makes their pace even slower. Smaller corridors spiral off the one they’re walking down, stretching away into red-tinted darkness. It’s like something from a horror movie, but all the same, they’re putting some distance between themselves and whatever commotion is taking place in the wings, and that’s got to count for something. “There should be a medical room and a staff break room up ahead,” Gil murmurs. “They’re probably our best bet -“</p><p>The corridor ahead of them suddenly falls dark, a figure detaching from some unseen corner. Gil’s gun is up and trained on them in a second.</p><p>“Show yourselves,” he demands. “Step forward slowly, with your arms raised.”</p><p>The man steps out of the shadows, one of his arms raised, another wrapped around his stomach.</p><p>“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot… please…”</p><p>He’s dressed in a guard’s uniform. He looks hurt, and afraid, but Gil can still see that red-haired bastard dressed in the very same uniform, sitting on top of Malcolm and grinning from ear to ear while the kid was slowly asphyxiating below him, and he’s not taking any chances.</p><p>“Stop there,” he says, and he feels Malcolm shift at his side, trying to get a better look at the guy. The dim, bloody light makes it hard to see his face properly, or if there’s anything hidden in his hands...</p><p>“Who the hell are you?” gasps the man.</p><p>“My name is Lieutenant Arroyo, I’m with the NYPD. I promise I’m not going to harm you… but right now I’m going to need you to raise both hands in the air.”</p><p>“You’re police? Oh, thank God.” He stumbles forward another a step forward and then moans when Gil clicks off the safety.</p><p>“I said, <em>stay there,</em>” he snarls, at the same time Malcolm says,</p><p>“Gil, wait -“</p><p>- and Martin’s voice chips in from behind him. “He’s lying! He’s working for Endicott.”</p><p>“You can’t know that -”</p><p>“What, it’s his first day?! If he worked here, I’d recognise him!” insists Martin.</p><p>“If he worked here, you’d lie about it!” Malcolm snaps back. The guard watches their exchange in pained bewilderment while Gil keeps his eyes trained on where the man’s hand is pressed against his stomach.</p><p>“Hands in the air,” he barks again and the man looks ready to keel over.</p><p>“I can’t, I…” he drops to his knees with a pained groan, doubling over until his head is almost pressing against the floor and Gil’s stomach clenches... because there’s a strong chance this is an innocent man with potentially grave injuries who needs his <em>help</em> and not a gun in his face…</p><p>“He’s telling the truth,” says Malcolm tightly, and he’s moving before Gil can caution him, leaving Mr David propped against the wall as Martin swears vehemently behind him.</p><p>“Kid -“ he calls warningly, keeping his gun trained on the guard, but Malcolm is already kneeling down beside the man, gently encouraging him to lie back on the ground. A moment later and Malcolm’s pushing back the man’s hand clutched at his abdomen, hissing in a sharp breath. “He’s been stabbed.”</p><p>“I don’t think... it’s that bad…” murmurs the man, his eyelids already flickering closed and Gil lowers the gun, sick with himself. The guy’s head lolls as he slips into unconsciousness. Gil can see it now - the hell-dark lighting has made <em>everything</em> blood-coloured, but he can see the shine on Malcolm’s hands, a sticky layer coating each palm as he moves to press them down over the wound -</p><p>“It’s pretty deep,” Malcolm says in panic as Gil hurries over to join him, “he - he’s losing a lot of blood -”</p><p>“Step one - apply pressure, stop the bleeding,” calls out Martin, as comfortable as if he’s presenting a lecture to a class. “Find something to pack the wound.”</p><p>Gil rips a strip off the guard’s bloody undershirt and hands it to Malcolm. The man lets out a tiny moan at the pressure against his injury, fingers twitching weakly. Gil takes the hand in his own and squeezes it, hoping some part of the guy’s mind registers the touch and understands help is with him.</p><p>“Now then… is he conscious?”</p><p>Gil checks the man’s pulse with his other hand, feeling it flutter weakly under his finger tips. “Hey, can you hear me?” He checks the name badge on the guy’s chest. “… Nicholls? Nicholls, you with me?” The man mumbles something too faint for him to make out.</p><p>“I… I don’t know how much blood he’s lost,” says Malcolm. “It’s too dark… What next?” Martin doesn’t answer and Malcolm looks up, his eyes wide with panic. “Dr Whitly - you need to tell me what to do. I’ve packed the wound, but -”</p><p>“How about… you un-cuff me, and I can give him the life-saving treatment he needs?” interrupts Martin calmly. He’s watching from several metres away, entirely unfazed, and Gil feels a fresh burst of hatred for the man. The condition of the guard aside, it staggers him that Martin can watch his own son struggling, up to his elbows in blood, and not even twitch an eyebrow.</p><p>“You don’t <em>need</em> your hands,” Malcolm hisses. “You can just <em>tell me</em> -“</p><p>“It’ll be faster if you leave it to those of us who are actually<em> qualified</em>,” says Martin smugly.</p><p>“I told you, <em>no.</em>” Martin smirks and says nothing, and Malcolm gives him a look of pure venom. “For ten seconds could you just think about someone else and <em>help</em>?”</p><p>Martin opens his mouth to reply —</p><p>— and responds with a cut-off gurgle as an arm wraps around his throat, a tall figure detaching itself from the shadows behind him with a low chuckle.</p><p>“Martin… I thought that was you.”</p><p>Malcolm jerks in shock, half-scrambling to his feet before he remembers the man slowly bleeding out beneath him. Gil rises more slowly, unholstering his gun, reaching for the set of cuffs hanging from the unconscious man’s belt.</p><p>“Killian,” rasps Martin. His cuffed hands claw ineffectually at the arm squeezing around his windpipe. “Hold on - a second here -” His voice is cut off as the man wrenches him backwards, sending him stumbling, half-hanging from the man’s grip.</p><p>“You’re not talking your way out of this one,” sneers the man named Killian. “You know how long I’ve wanted you to <em>shut the fuck up</em> in the last seven years? Looks like I finally get my wish.”</p><p>“Gil…” Malcolm’s eyes are wide as saucers. The plea is clear -<em> do something</em>, save the bastard, and Gil clenches his jaw, taking a step closer, trying to get a clear shot as Martin claws and gasps for air.</p><p>“Let him go,” calls out Gil. “I’m armed and I will shoot.” It’s a bluff: in the shadows, with the way Martin’s squirming, he’d be as likely to shoot the hostage as the attacker… <em>not that that would be worst thing in the world,</em> he can’t help thinking -</p><p>“So shoot,” smiles Killian, “I’ll snap his neck. It’ll be worth it.”</p><p>“No!” Malcolm stumbles to his feet, holding out his bloody hands in desperate appeal. “Don’t… don’t kill him! Let him go… and you can just walk away. My friend here won’t stop you!”</p><p>“I think I’ll stay.” Martin makes a choked noise. His eyes jump from Gil’s face to Malcolm’s and without even turning his head Gil can<em> feel</em> the panic rolling off the kid in waves. An echo of the conversation he overheard plays again in his ears -</p><p><em>- if I die in here, it’s on </em> <span class="u"> <em>you</em> </span> <em> -</em></p><p>And <em>goddammit</em>, if it isn’t exactly the sort of poisonous lie the kid’s going to take as gospel if anything happens to the son of a bitch. He takes a step closer —</p><p>Just as Martin manages to get his feet under him and aim a kick at the man’s legs. Killian stumbles - not enough to release his hostage, but enough to give Gil an in. He fires and the bullet punches clean through the man’s shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor - and Martin along with him.</p><p>“Help Nicholls,” he barks, and then he’s racing to separate to two men. Killian is already lunging for Martin again, who is scrabbling backwards across the floor, kicking out at his attacker desperately. Gil grabs Killian, hauling him off —</p><p>“Get back,” he snaps, shoving himself between them and throwing Killian back against the floor. He can hear Martin scrambling to safety behind him but can’t focus on him right now, not with Killian coming at him. Gil lands a punch to the man’s face that sends his head snapping back against the concrete; one more quick, tactical strike to the man’s injured arm and the fight bleeds out of him as he tries to curl up around the bloody hole in his shoulder. Gil wrestles him facedown onto the floor, ignoring the man’s howl of pain when his arm is wrenched back. “I warned you,” breathes Gil, slapping the cuffs onto him. He ignores Killian moaning in pain underneath him and sits back, catching his breath… just in time to notice the faintest brush of movement at his hip.</p><p>He’s spinning round in a second, but it’s already too late.</p><p>His own gun points at him from Martin’s hands - <em>his un-cuffed hands -</em> Malcolm’s cry of shock ringing in his ears as Martin beams down at him.</p><p>“I hate to say it, Lieutenant… but I did warn you, too.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Role Reversal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to everyone reading this story, I really appreciate all your comments and feedback 😊 Hope you enjoy this next part!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Gil stares down the barrel of his own gun, and then up into the eyes of the man who longs to kill him.</p><p><em>This is how he’s going to die</em>, he realises, with a heavy feeling of resignation. <em>Of course…</em></p><p>The Surgeon’s smile is exactly the same as it was that night they first met, as Martin stirred that cup of tea and schemed his death… and <em>how much sweeter,</em> he wonders, <em>how much sweeter is it going to be for him, now that he’s waited twenty years?</em></p><p>“No!”</p><p>It’s Malcolm’s voice, wavering with terror, and Gil’s suddenly wrenched back to the present moment as if he’s been plunged into cold water. He looks up into those twinkly, ice-chip eyes with a lurch of genuine terror.</p><p><em><span class="u">No</span>...</em><em> Not in front of the kid</em>…</p><p>“What a role reversal we appear to have here,” says Martin, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Aren’t you going to put your hands up?”</p><p>Gil just looks at him. He’s sure that every ounce of his loathing and contempt for the man is there in his eyes, because Martin raises an eyebrow for a moment before making a little gesture with the gun. <span class="u"><em>His</em></span><em> goddamn gun.</em> “Go on, then. On your feet, Lieutenant. Hands in the air.”</p><p>Gil slowly gets to his feet. He can sense Malcolm moving closer in his peripheral vision, but can’t quite bring himself to look at him just yet. “No,” he hears him say again and Gil feels a stab of pain in his chest at how utterly terrified the kid sounds. “Dad…Dad, <em>please</em>…”</p><p>Martin doesn’t take his eyes off Gil. He just gestures again with the gun, motioning for Gil to step to the side, and then he eyes the weapon in his hand speculatively. “You know, I never really was much of a gun enthusiast. More of a scalpel man myself… but they do have their uses, don’t they?”</p><p>He looks down at Killian, still groaning on the floor near where Gil is standing - and shoots him in the head.</p><p>“Jesus!” shouts Gil, unable to stop himself, stumbling back a couple of steps. He hears Malcolm’s yelp of shock. Martin eyes the body at his feet and shrugs.</p><p>“Not particularly satisfying… but you can’t say it’s not efficient.” He levels the gun at Gil again and takes a step closer.</p><p>“No... <em>don’t</em>…”</p><p>“What’s that, my boy?” Martin still hasn’t taken his eyes off Gil.</p><p>“Don’t… don’t hurt him. <em>Please.</em>”</p><p>Malcolm’s close enough now that Gil can see him, shaking, in the corner of his eye. His heart jolts at the look on the kid’s face. His eyes are wild, filled with tears, fixed on his father imploringly. Gil watches as Martin drinks it in: basking in the absolute power he has over the son who, only moments ago, could barely stand to look at him.</p><p>Gil’s delivered the man <em>exactly</em> what he wants.</p><p>The Surgeon steps closer, until he’s almost chest to chest with Gil, the gun raised so it’s sitting a couple of inches away from his forehead. Gil wonders if it’s worth moving fast, attempting to make a grab for it… but something in his expression must give him away, because Martin chuckles the moment the thought crosses his mind. “That’s one way to get your brains on the wall.” Malcolm finally wrenches his gaze off his father long enough to look at him, and the naked terror in his eyes leaves Gil breathless. All he can do is look back at the kid helplessly as Martin slowly moves behind him - until he can't see him anymore... only feel his presence, making all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up... as the gun comes to press against his temple. “You really want me to spare him?”</p><p>“Yes<em>,</em>” gasps Malcolm. “Dad… don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him. I-I’ll do anything…”</p><p>“<em>Anything?” s</em>ays Martin - as if turning over the idea, testing it out while the kid hangs on his every word. “I don’t know if I should be offended. <em>Anything</em>… for<em> him</em>?”</p><p>Malcolm looks like he doesn’t know what to say, torn between begging for Gil’s life and the sudden new fear that showing how much he cares might be the very thing that convinces his father to pull the trigger. <em>As always with Martin Whitly</em>, thinks Gil bleakly, <em>it’s a lose-lose situation…</em></p><p>“He split up your family, Malcolm. Broke us apart. He doesn’t deserve to live. Are you <em>sure</em> that’s what you want?”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” whispers Malcolm, as if he’s pouring his heart into the word. The gun shifts at Gil’s temple. He takes one last look at Malcolm, fully expecting for him to be the last thing he ever sees.</p><p>“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, as steadily as he can. “This wasn’t your fault. Please remember that.”</p><p>Martin’s arm snakes across his chest, pulling Gil back against him… and then the man huffs an amused breath past his ear.</p><p>“Oh, my boy… of course I’m not going to <em>kill</em> him! Not right now, anyway. We need all hands on deck.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him, all of his confusion and hope plain upon his face. “What… what do you mean?” He looks unsure, like Martin’s words might be a trick or a trap, and Gil’s not entirely sure they’re not a trick either. Martin nods down to what’s left of Killian, sprawled on the floor at their feet.</p><p>“First thing’s first. Killian doesn’t need those cuffs anymore. Take them off and put them on the Lieutenant, would you?”</p><p>And Gil can barely feel the relief of realising Martin means it, that he’s not going to die right here, right now from a bullet between his eyes… <em>because it just means the man’s going to toy with them for even longer.</em> “You son of a bitch,” he manages at last, and feels the gun grind against his temple as Martin holds him tighter, his breath tickling across his ear.</p><p>“You know, I’m something of an expert in inflicting pain on the human body, so I’d save your little comments, <em>Lieutenant</em>. Cuffs first, questions later, Malcolm. Hurry up.”</p><p>Without meeting his eyes, Malcolm steps forward and takes the keys for the cuffs out of Gil’s pocket. Then he takes the cuffs off the dead man and stands up again. He takes Gil’s hand gently in his own and, looking like it physically pains him to do so, starts to slip the cold metal around his wrist.</p><p>“Ah-ah! Tightly, Malcolm.<em> Tighter.</em> There you go. And let’s have his hands behind his back, thank you.” Malcolm clenches his jaw and darts Gil a look of apology as he reaches around and secures his wrists behind him. “Perfect! And I’ll take that…” Martin pockets the keys as Malcolm steps back, looking at his father mutinously. </p><p>Martin's hand claps Gil on the shoulder happily, making him flinch in surprise, before he finally steps into view again, looking him up and down. He smirks in satisfaction with what he sees. “<em>There</em>. Much better.”</p><p>“He saved your life,” chokes Malcolm, fury creeping into his voice now that the threat of Gil’s imminent execution seems to be on hold. “He was <em>protecting</em> you —"</p><p>“Oh come on now. Fair’s fair. He was happy for me to walk around during a riot with my hands tied… all I’m doing is turning the tables.”</p><p>“Mr David,” says Malcolm bitterly, “<em>that</em> was why… you took the keys to the cuffs when you were checking him over. You didn’t care. You had a way out of them this whole time!”</p><p>Martin shrugs, self-deprecating. “Well, I was <em>hoping</em> you’d see reason and let me out voluntarily… but given how under Gil’s thumb you are, I should have known that wouldn’t be happening. So I was forced to take matters into my own hands once a suitable occasion arose.”</p><p>“A suitable occasion,” seethes Malcolm, and even though he still looks on the brink of a nervous breakdown, Gil’s happier seeing this fury in his eyes than the desperate terror of earlier.</p><p>“Save it, kid,” he mutters. “He’s never gonna —"</p><p>He's slammed back against the wall so fast he’s stunned; head smashing against the concrete, arms crushed painfully behind him -</p><p>“<em>He’s</em> <em>not </em><span class="u"><em>your</em></span><em> kid!”</em></p><p>The gun jabs into the underside of his jaw; the press of steel half-cutting off his air as Martin holds him pinned. Gil blinks away stars, his fists clenching reflexively where they’re locked behind him - but he bites his tongue. He’s well aware how much Martin wants to pull the trigger that would currently blow his head off, and <em>he can’t die like this</em> - with Malcolm begging for his life; with God knows how many other killers lurking just around the corner, ready to pick the kid off…</p><p>The pressure of the gun increases, just a fraction; enough that Gil can't draw in a breath as Martin watches, practically nose to nose with him. The man keeps his eyes on him, but it’s all for Malcolm when he speaks again. “Malcolm… did I ever tell you about what I had planned for Gil here, before your little intervention? I had <em>quite</em> the experiment figured out.” He grins at Gil, apparently tickled by whatever he sees in his expression. “I imagine you’ve wondered about it too, Lieutenant… had a few vivid nightmares about it, I’ll bet. It would be messy, recreating it here without the proper equipment… but the inquiring mind always finds a way…”</p><p>“Stop!” Malcolm’s voice - desperate, pleading, “you’ve made your point, ok? Just <em>stop…</em>” </p><p>For a moment longer, those eyes bore into his, naked hatred and rage gleaming there...</p><p>... and then the man’s stepping away, an eerie calm smoothing over his features. Gil can only hope he doesn't look as shaken as he feels. He can see Malcolm, watching him from behind his father. The kid looks terrified.</p><p>“I’d suggest the Lieutenant doesn’t grace us with any more of his conversation for a while,” Martin says coolly, the gun barrel now aimed somewhere in the region of Gil’s heart. “Now then, Malcolm… pick those up.” He means the other handcuffs, the ones he slipped out of at some point while Gil was wrestling with Killian. Malcolm does so, helpless fury in his eyes as he meets his father’s gaze again. Martin chuckles.</p><p>“Oh honestly my boy, you can’t think I’d make you wear those<em>?</em>” Malcolm presses his lips together. “My own son? Of course not. How <em>you</em> could stand by while <em>I</em> had to wear them… but I suppose we can blame Gil here for that.”</p><p>Malcolm’s eyes dart to Gil’s face again, clearly unsure if contradicting his father would be a bad idea at this point. Martin carries on as if he hasn’t noticed. “Anyway, we’ll need both of us to make it out of here unscathed. No, no - just pass them here, please. It never hurts to have a spare set.” Malcolm acquiesces, and now some of the panic has drained out of him, Gil can see the cogs in his head whirring.</p><p>“You’re right… our odds of survival go up if we work together. <em>All</em> of us,” he points out, in his <em>talk down the suspect</em> voice. “If we’re attacked, we need Gil on our side. Able to fight.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, Malcolm. I’ll keep you safe.” Martin smiles warmly, apparently immune to the nauseated look on the kid’s face. “And Gil here still has his uses…” He grabs him by the shoulder, steering him forwards. Gil wrenches out of his grip automatically, furious at being manhandled by the man he hates more than anyone else in the world, and Martin chuckles in delight. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant? I thought protecting and serving was in the job description.”</p><p>Malcolm’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “You’re not using him as a <em>human shield.</em>” Martin smirks.</p><p>“What about Nicholls?” Gil grits out, because screwed as he is, there’s still an innocent man bleeding out on the floor behind him. Malcolm goes pale - it’s clear that from the moment Martin turned the gun on Gil, the guard slipped completely out of his mind.</p><p>“I think we have enough dead weight to be hauling around,” says Martin, looking at Gil disparagingly. “He can keep Mr David company, if the man wakes up. Let’s move.” Malcolm shakes his head.</p><p>“No! You have your hands free now - you can do something to stabilise him, or -“</p><p>“The man’s as good as dead already,” says Martin.</p><p>“You could at least <em>try!”</em></p><p>There's a sudden <em>crashing</em> - followed by the muted cacophony of multiple voices shouting at once. All of them tense, heads turning towards the source of the sound. <em>Is it coming from closer than it was before? </em>There's a distant shriek - a wailing, drawn out scream that makes Gil's stomach lurch. He sees a muscle tic in Martin's jaw.</p><p>“Forget the guard," the man snaps. "The kindest thing we could do for him now is put a bullet in his brain… only we can’t spare the ammo. Come on, lead the way, <em>Gil.</em>” Martin grabs him again, the gun pressing into his spine as he shoves him forward. There’s a second where it sounds like Malcolm isn’t following them; with Martin’s grip on his neck, he can’t even turn his head to check… and then he hears the kid swearing, the scramble of footsteps as he rushes to catch up. Malcolm darts forward, clearly wanting to take the lead in an effort to protect Gil from any threats that might lie ahead, and Gil’s furious with himself, because he’s <em>worse</em> than useless - in a single moment of carelessness, he’s become a burden, forcing <em>Malcolm</em> to protect <em>him</em> -</p><p>Martin’s calling him back immediately. “No, Malcolm - you need to make sure no one sneaks up behind us. Gil and I have the front covered, don’t we?”</p><p>Malcolm opens his mouth to argue and Gil cuts him off. “K - Bright… it’s fine. Just do it.” <em>The faster they move, the faster they can at least make sure they’ll only have the one deranged killer to deal with.</em></p><p>Malcolm looks incredibly unhappy with their formation - and frankly, Gil isn’t delighted by it either - but whatever he sees in Gil’s eyes has him falling reluctantly back. The gun stabs into Gil’s back harder, and Gil has no doubt that Martin is annoyed Malcolm obeyed him, even when the order was Martin’s own. <em>How the hell is he meant to navigate this,</em> he wonders, <em>how the hell can he help </em><span class="u"><em>Malcolm</em></span><em> navigate this</em>, when every word he says only makes the man behind him want to blow his brains out?</p><p>He feels a hand slip into his pocket, as Martin steers him into a corridor that manages to be even darker than the one they’ve just left. A hand grasps his and twists, pressing his thumb against a surface. <em>His phone, </em>Gil realises. “Hmm. Looks like your colleagues have taken Endicott into custody… but no word on the lockdown…” Dani said she’d send him updates by text to save their battery... <em>n</em><em>ow that intel will go direct to Martin -</em> </p><p>“No - Gil needs that! That phone’s our best chance of getting out of here -“</p><p>“I think I can manage to read a text, Malcolm,” says Martin dismissively. “It’s more than he can do with his hands behind his back.”</p><p>“But -“</p><p>“Oh, <em>enough</em> about Gil! Pretend like he’s not here. Let’s talk about<em> you</em>. How are you feeling, my boy?”</p><p>Malcolm doesn’t answer and Martin tuts. “The silent treatment? Really? I’d have thought you’d outgrown<em> that</em> by now.” More silence. “You know, now I have my hands free I could check you over myself - that guard got some nasty kicks in earlier -“</p><p>“I’d rather die,” says Malcolm, and although Gil can’t see him, he can hear his voice shaking with rage. “I’d rather bleed to death internally than have you as my doctor for <em>one second.</em>”</p><p>“Oh don’t be so melodramatic,” snorts Martin. “How often do we get this sort of quality time together? We should be making the most of this —“</p><p>“This isn’t some… <em>father son</em> bonding time! You’re holding us hostage! At gunpoint!”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Malcolm! You know I’d never hurt you -“</p><p>“<em>All you do</em> is hurt me! Right now, holding a gun at his head - you’re hurting me. I’d rather you pointed it at me. I’d rather still be trapped in that cell -“</p><p>“Bright,” Gil starts, hoping to calm the kid down, but Martin’s grip on the back of his neck tightens cruelly, fingers jabbing into some kind of pressure point that makes him gasp in pain.</p><p>“Don’t —!“</p><p>Martin cuts Malcolm off, wheeling them both round; finally releasing his grip on Gil so that father and son are eye to eye again -</p><p>“<em>Really</em>? You’d rather the two of us were being <em>tortured</em> by that megalomaniac? What has the Lieutenant done to have you so in his thrall, exactly? No doubt he’s been whispering in your ear about what a<em> bad man</em> your father is -”</p><p>“He didn’t need to tell me anything! I know <em>exactly</em> what kind of man you are! A narcissistic psychopath who’s never given a damn about me or Ainsley or <em>anyone </em>but himself -”</p><p>“That’s simply not true -“</p><p>“And on the subject of being <em>tortured… </em>why was it Endicott’s men decided to hurt me instead of you?” hisses Malcolm, moving a step closer. “Who planted that idea in their heads? Who engineered it so that <span class="u">you</span> were the only one who came out of that room without a scratch on them?!”</p><p>Gil looks between the two of them, stunned. “No… you’ve gotta be kidding me…”</p><p>“I did no such thing,” spits Martin, but Gil can see from the kid’s face he doesn’t believe him and he forgets the gun in his utter shock; sudden, hot rage engulfing him -</p><p>“You cowardly bastard - your own <em>son -</em>”</p><p>Martin turns on him with a roar of anger, throwing him back into the wall. Gil stumbles, barely registering the impact over the sheer blaze of fury -</p><p>- when the gun smashes into his temple, and everything explodes in a fiery pulse of stars.</p><p>Over the noise of the world ringing, he hears the<em> click</em> of the safety. He knows that sound, but he can’t process what it means. He can’t process anything but the sickening tilt of the floor below his cheek…</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Gil blinks groggily at the shoes that have materialised about an inch from his nose.</p><p>“If you want to shoot him, you’re gonna have to shoot me first!”</p><p>“No… Bright…” his words come out as barely a mumble. The legs slip sideways in front of him - <em>Malcolm’s legs,</em> he realises fuzzily. The kid’s standing over him, squarely between Gil and the gun. <em>That’s not right. Wrong way round. </em>He tries to reach out to pull the kid behind him, but his arms don’t move. Kid, he says… he <em>wants</em> to say…</p><p>…</p><p><em>Did he just lose time?</em> </p><p>There’s snatches of blurry voices above him —</p><p>
  <em>How hard did he get hit, exactly?</em>
</p><p>Hands on his arms, sitting him back against the wall. </p><p>“Gil? Gil, can you hear me?”</p><p>He tries to blink the world into focus. Malcolm’s face slides back and forth before him.</p><p>“Malcolm,” he mutters. He tries to grab his arm to steady himself, but his hands are caught behind him. He wonders if he’s going to puke on the kid’s stupidly expensive shirt…</p><p>“We need to move.”</p><p>Martin’s voice floats down from above him and Gil winces -<em> too loud, everything is </em><span class="u"><em>way</em></span><em> too loud -</em></p><p>“Then you shouldn’t have tried to smash his skull open!” snaps Malcolm, sounding close to tears.</p><p>“Oh, he’s fine. Stand him up, come on.” Malcolm starts swearing and then there’s arms underneath his own, sliding him up the wall, holding him there when Gil’s body tries to collapse forward without his permission.</p><p>“Kid?” he slurs.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m here, Gil. Oh god, I’m so sorry… ” Gil sways and Malcolm curses.</p><p>“Let me take a look at him.”</p><p>And suddenly the weight on his arms shifts, a hand roughly gripping his chin. <em>Martin</em>. For a horrible second, Gil sees <em>two</em> of him - <em>one, one is </em><span class="u"><em>more</em></span><em> than enough -</em> and the appraising look in the man’s eyes is like a shock of cold water. He tries to get his legs steady under him, yanking his jaw out of the man’s grasp. “It’s a <em>mild</em> concussion,” says Martin, and from this close, Gil can see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, hiding in the corners of his mouth as he studies Gil up close.</p><p>Gil’s lip curls in anger, because he knows now that <em>this </em>is what Martin wanted when he decided to hold off on pulling the trigger: to make him suffer first. To weaken him in front of Malcolm. “Well, Lieutenant?” he asks, those eyes glinting at him wickedly. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“… ‘m fine,” he manages. Martin’s smile twinkles back at him.</p><p>“You see, my boy? Gil’s <em>fine</em>. He’s powering on through, like the valiant public servant he is.”</p><p>Martin steps away, his gaze sweeping over Gil in satisfaction…</p><p>… and that’s when Malcolm goes for the gun.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Run!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Gil looks like he can hardly stand. Like he’s barely conscious of where he is. Martin is smiling like he wants to record the moment and save it away for a rainy day, and Malcolm <em>can’t stand it</em>.</p><p>He’s the <em>reason</em> Gil is here, the reason he’s concussed and cuffed and surrounded by danger. All Gil’s ever done is try to look out for him; he tried to talk him out of coming here in the first place… and what’s Malcolm done in return? <em>First he pulled him into Endicott’s crosshairs… and now, the Surgeon’s…</em></p><p>Malcolm takes a step back and against every instinct, lets Martin examine Gil close up. Watches as his father’s grip loosens around the gun at his side, too busy savouring the way Gil is looking daggers at him - and then he <em>lunges, </em>striking out for the gun as he dives —</p><p>The gun skitters out of Martin’s hand, skidding away into the darkness of the corridor as Martin goes down and Malcolm crashes on top of him, his arm flying back to deliver a punch to his father’s jaw before he’s even hit the ground. He knows the Surgeon has height and weight on him, not to mention ample experience when it comes to subduing struggling victims - he can’t give the man a chance to get the upper hand…</p><p>Martin rolls onto his front to push himself up and Malcolm throws himself after him, all his weight landing on the arm that’s groping round, twisting it up behind his back. Martin roars in pain beneath him, bucking as Malcolm plants his knees against the ground desperately. He catches a glimpse of Gil, slipping down the wall back to the ground —</p><p>He forces himself to look away, scrabbling for the spare cuffs in Martin’s pocket -<em> just five more seconds - he can free Gil, stop his father —</em></p><p>And Martin’s free hand reaches round, jabbing with vicious accuracy into the exact spot where Hulk stomped on him earlier. Malcolm gasps in pain, curling forward, his grip on Martin’s arm faltering for a fatal second… With his body brought lower, it’s easier for Martin to deliver a second blow to the same tender spot and Malcolm cries out. Martin takes the opportunity to roll over, toppling Malcolm beneath him onto the ground; elbowing him brutally in the stomach before he can even think to roll away. <em>No no no </em>- he should have known Martin would target his injuries; remembered that he was <em>watching</em>, probably <em>cataloguing </em>when every one of them was inflicted…</p><p>He finds himself pinioned, Martin’s weight holding him down, a knee across one arm and a hand wrapped around his other wrist. Martin shifts and he gasps - the weight on top of all his existing bruises is <em>agonising</em>. He twists in an effort to free himself, but he doesn’t have the leverage - he's helpless in his father's grip, and the realisation floods him with terror... </p><p>“Oh, Malcolm.” His father looks down at him, his gaze horrifyingly blank. “My boy…”</p><p>Slowly, he brings down his free hand to cup Malcolm’s cheek. Malcolm wants to jerk his head away, to spit curses at the man, but some deeper instinct keeps him frozen - a mouse before a snake. His father stares down at him in the near darkness, black and red and dead behind the eyes, and it's like his every nightmare made flesh...</p><p><em>No...  His father wouldn’t kill him</em>.Endicott might have spun that story, but the Surgeon wouldn’t try to kill his own son…</p><p>
  <em>(again)</em>
</p><p>… would he?</p><p>The hand on his cheek slides lower… resting for just a second with the thumb splayed over his already bruised throat. His father’s gaze slides down to where his hand is resting… then slowly up again to catch on Malcolm’s own.</p><p>“My boy,” he murmurs again. “You do test me. Just what am I going to do with you?”</p><p>Those eyes give away nothing. They study him coolly; anatomising him as he lies, pinned out, with all his fear and fury and helplessness written on his face. He can’t stop the tears that fill his eyes, and Martin smiles when he sees them, tutting indulgently.</p><p>“Malcolm,” he whispers. “I’m disappointed in you. When are you going to realise that we’re a <em>team</em>? I’m on <em>your </em>side. I’ve always had your best interests at heart, and you’ll come to see that… eventually.” He gently swipes away a tear trickling its way down into Malcolm’s hair, ignoring the way Malcolm turns his head away at the touch. “The plans I’ve made for us…”</p><p>There’s a sound from the end of the corridor.Martin’s head snaps towards it -</p><p>- as a figure detaches from the shadows and picks up the gun.</p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>The voice is like an ignition switch. The dreamy state of terror Malcolm’s been suspended in is transformed to something immediate and <em>visceral</em>; kickstarting his breath in his lungs again, the pain in his chest. Martin’s grip on his wrist tightens unconsciously as he strains to make out the figure silhouetted at the end of the corridor - <em>the figure with the loaded gun</em>, thinks Malcolm, his brain finally firing on all cylinders again, just at the point it’s probably about to get splattered all over the wall -</p><p>“Martin? Is that you?”</p><p>Martin squints into the darkness. “… Tiny?”</p><p>“No,” breathes Malcolm, twisting frantically to try and see Gil - Gil, who hasn’t said a word during his entire fight with Martin - who’s sitting slumped against the wall with his hands cuffed behind him, a sitting duck for anyone who might attack…</p><p>“No… no, it’s ok, Malcolm. Tiny’s no danger… right, Tiny?”</p><p>“Tiny’s no danger,” repeats the man, sounding pleased. He shuffles forward another step, falling under the red glow of a ceiling light. He’s in the same white prisoner’s scrubs as Martin, but his posture reminds Malcolm of a sleepy child roused from bed. His stare is half-vacant as it slides from Martin, to Malcolm pinned below him, without any degree of curiosity.</p><p>“Martin, did you hear all the noise?”</p><p>“I sure did,” says Martin soothingly. He starts to get up, tugging Malcolm after him with that crushing grip on his wrist. His eyes never leave Tiny, or the gun.“Say… did you happen to see who it was? Who’s doing all that yelling?”</p><p>“Yeah… who’re you with, Martin?”</p><p>“Oh, these two? These are just… my friends,” says Martin. “This is Malcolm... and that one’s Gil.” Tiny continues his slow amble forwards and Malcolm twitches in panic, because every step is bringing him closer to Gil, who he’s fairly sure has slipped out of consciousness. Martin’s hand squeezes around his wrist so hard, he feels the bones grind together.</p><p>“Hi, Martin’s friends!” says Tiny. Martin glares at Malcolm significantly.</p><p>“Hi, Tiny,” Malcolm says weakly.</p><p>“So,” continues Martin, “about that yelling, huh? Was it the guards?”</p><p>“Mr Reynolds screamed some, but he’s stopped now. No one’s going to bed, even though it’s bedtime. I can’t sleep. The whole wing’s going to be up late.”</p><p>Martin nods, edging forwards now, tugging Malcolm reluctantly behind him… but he daren’t risk making a break for it and startling the man with the gun...</p><p>“Right. That’s a shame… which wing is that again, Tiny?”</p><p>“D wing,” says Tiny and Martin nods, eyes calculating.</p><p>“D wing… that’s Rogers… Walter… Steve, Chopper, Casey….”</p><p>“Is that good or bad?” Malcolm hisses under his breath.</p><p>“It’s… not <em>great</em>, but…”</p><p>“And E wing too,” adds Tiny.</p><p>Martin swallows. “Ok, we need to move.” He releases Malcolm’s wrist and Malcolm’s moving towards Gil instantly. He crouches down under Tiny’s bland, incurious stare and shakes him gently by the shoulders.</p><p>“Gil? Gil, wake up…”</p><p>Gil groans softly, a tiny crease furrowing his brow, and part of Malcolm feels vaguely guilty for dragging him back into this horror-show. He can hear Martin moving behind him.</p><p>“Tiny, how about you give me that gun?”</p><p>“You want it, Martin?”</p><p>“I do,” says Martin earnestly, turning that kindly smile onto the other man, “it’s actually mine, Tiny… I just dropped it on the floor, before. Thank you for finding it for me.” Malcolm glances back over his shoulder, just in time to see Tiny obligingly hand the gun back to Dr Whitly.</p><p>He’s not sure he wouldn’t be better off if Tiny had kept hold of it.</p><p>“There we are,” Martin breathes. “You know me Malcolm, I’ve always voted Democrat... but there is something really quite satisfying about <em>packing heat</em>.” Malcolm ignores him, continuing to urge Gil back towards consciousness.</p><p>“Sorry, Gil… but you really need to wake up…”</p><p>“Mmm.” Gil squints at him, looking vaguely surprised to see him. “Bright? What?”</p><p>“Can you stand? We’ve gotta go…”</p><p>Gil opens his mouth to answer, but the words come from a different direction entirely:</p><p>“Where you going?”</p><p>The voice rumbles out from behind him, making Malcolm jump. Martin whips round, eyes widening at the cluster of dark figures that emerge at the far end of the corridor behind them - <em>four or five of them, </em>Malcolm registers, and from his father’s body language, these guys are no Tinys…</p><p>“<em>Run!</em>”</p><p>Malcolm grabs Gil by the arm and drags him up. Gil staggers, slipping down to one knee almost immediately. Malcolm pulls him up again frantically, yanking him along - but he can already hear footsteps echoing towards him, speeding up, and there’s <em>no way</em> they’re going to be able to outrun them —</p><p>There’s the explosion of a gun shot - Tiny <em>screams </em>from somewhere in front of them. Malcolm ducks instinctively, forcing Gil onwards as the footsteps behind them pause, a shout echoing out - Gil moans beside him, from confusion or the noise or the pain-</p><p>And then Martin’s there, grabbing Malcolm’s arm -</p><p>“I said, <em>run!”</em></p><p>“I’m not leaving him!”</p><p>Martin snarls in frustration - he glances back into the shadowy scrum, voices and the tread of boots rising up again, clearly weighing up how many bullets he can risk wasting -</p><p>“We don’t have time for —“</p><p>“If you want me to run then <em>help</em>!”</p><p>He sees the calculation flash in his father’s eyes - the split second it takes for him to make his decision -</p><p>“Oh, for -“ Martin grabs Gil by the other arm, wrenching him forward. Between them, Gil is half-stumbling, half-dragged across the floor as they scramble - past Tiny, crying and screeching beside the wall - more shouts echo from behind them, threats and roars and cackles —</p><p>“Left,” shouts his father and they’re turning, Gil skidding helplessly between them — then right, darting into a narrow corridor, rushing along —</p><p>Martin shoulders open a door and hurries through - they’re at the next one before it’s had time to swing closed. Malcolm glances over his shoulder breathless, just in time to see the dim light at the porthole blocked out by a figure —</p><p>And then they’re stumbling down another corridor. Malcolm’s lost all sense of direction now; he has no idea if they’re rushing headlong into a dead end. Martin wrenches open another door to their left and they’re through it, into an empty room… just a desk and a couple of chairs and a vending machine, another door at the other end of the room. They dart out of sight of the window and freeze, Martin and Malcolm pressing up against the wall, Gil instantly trying to curl up between them now they’ve stopped, panting for breath.</p><p>Footsteps careen down the corridor outside, voices all overlapping - a hysterical giggling, another voice hissing threats, another urging someone onwards - it’s the soundtrack from a horror movie but Martin just cocks his head, listening intently…</p><p>The steps pass the door. The voices fade away ahead of them. One of them erupts into whooping that echoes on eerily as the door slams behind them.</p><p>He meets his father’s eyes and Martin nods in confirmation.</p><p>The coast is clear. They’re safe.</p><p><em>Safe…</em> with his father and the gun.<em> Right.</em></p><p>Martin steps back to the door, peering through the window, as Malcolm returns his attention to Gil, deciding to focus on one problem at a time. “Gil?” he whispers. Gil keeps his eyes squeezed closed, but he mumbles something that he can’t catch. “Gil? What did you say?”</p><p>“Stop,” mumbles Gil, “making me run.”</p><p>“We’re stopped,” promises Malcolm. “I swear.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Gil mutters. He draws in a couple more deep breaths. “I may puke on you, kid.”</p><p>“That would be fair enough,” says Malcolm, steering him gently towards the chair in the corner. Gil sinks down into it with a moan as Malcolm moves to test the other door - it’s locked. When Gil’s got his breath back, they’ll have to risk heading out the way they came in…</p><p>Gil finally squints his eyes open. He looks over at Martin, still lurking by the door, and gives him a look of pure poison.</p><p>“Un-cuff me, or I swear to God…” he trails off, swallowing back a wave of dizziness. Martin raises a disparaging eyebrow. Gil exhales slowly and then tries again. “You are going to get us all killed with your goddamn power play. <em>Un-cuff me </em>and we might have some hope of surviving this.”</p><p>“You mean <em>you</em> might have some hope of surviving this,” says Martin evenly. “I think Malcolm and I will do just fine.”</p><p>“That’s not how this works,” says Malcolm tightly. “I’m not going anywhere without him. If Gil gets caught, I get caught. Is that what you want? Is that part of your <em>plan</em> for us?”</p><p>As ever, Martin avoids the question he’s asking with consummate ease. “There’s no point being a martyr, Malcolm, especially not for him. If he gets into trouble, Gil would want you to leave him behind. Isn’t that right, Gil?”</p><p>Gil manages to deliver a full-force glare in Martin’s direction despite looking like he can barely sit upright in the chair... but then his gaze flickers to Malcolm and Malcolm knows what he’s going to say before he can say it.</p><p>“<em>Don’t.</em>”</p><p>“There’s still a chance we all get out of here in one piece,” Gil says softly, “and that’s my preferred option, believe me. But if things don’t go to plan -“</p><p>“I’m not going to -“</p><p>“I want you to get yourself to safety, ok? I want you to promise me that you’re not going to risk your life -“</p><p>“You want me to leave you behind?!” asks Malcolm incredulously. “Is that what you would do?”</p><p>“Bright -"</p><p>“We’re not having this conversation! Can’t you see that’s <em>exactly</em> what he wants?!” Martin attempts to look innocent in the corner, and Malcolm has to fight the urge to scream.</p><p>“What he wants doesn’t matter,” says Gil, “this is about making sure <em>you</em> get out of this alive -“</p><p>“<em>Both of us</em> are gonna get out of this alive!” <em>There is no way Gil is going to pay for his mistakes.</em> There is <em>no way</em> he is gonna let anything like that happen. If that means disobeying orders or the man never speaking to him again, then so be it -</p><p>“Malcolm —“</p><p>Malcolm wheels round on his father. “No! I don’t want to hear whatever you have to say!”</p><p>“Now don’t go getting emotional again,” says Martin, always so goddamn <em>unruffled, </em>always playing him, winding him up and seeing where he goes. Malcolm backs away until he’s against the opposite door, as far as he can physically get from the man, clenching his trembling hand into a fist. “Who<em> is</em> your therapist nowadays?” Martin continues, “is it still that woman your mother found? Because I’d honestly expect you to be a little further along in managing your feelings -“</p><p>Malcolm closes his eyes; focusses on his breathing. Ignores the way that Gil was looking at him -</p><p>“You don’t need to be scared, my boy. I give you my word, I’m going to get you out of this -“</p><p>Ignores his father’s voice, snaking towards him from across the room -</p><p>
  <em>Just breathe. Focus on the sensation of air filling your lungs -</em>
</p><p>The door shifts, just a fraction, at his back - a creak of metal he can’t hear, but feel in his spine.</p><p>
  <em>The sound of a key, turning in a lock.</em>
</p><p>Malcolm spins just as the door smashes open, sending him flying back against the floor. He lifts his head dizzily.</p><p>Two men stand in the doorway. One of them has his eyes on Malcolm - eyes like needles, cold and hard - a shiv gripped in his hand. The other would be strikingly good-looking but for the blood smeared across half his face; great gouts of it sprayed across his scrubs. Behind them are more figures, shrouded in darkness, looking down at him.</p><p>“I heard from Ritchie we had visitors,” says the man with the shiv, striding in. He gives Malcolm a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, cold as the flash of a blade -</p><p>- and then Gil’s there, squaring up to the man as best he can, positioning himself squarely in front of Malcolm. “Bright, <em>go,</em>” he barks, as Malcolm staggers to his feet -</p><p>“And this one is gift-wrapped,” says the blood-stained man in a strong French accent. He beams, looking at Gil hungrily. “Let’s take them with us.”</p><p>One of the men reaches out to grab Gil and Gil throws himself against the wall, kicking out savagely - the man howls in pain, but two more are already closing in on him. Malcolm throws himself forwards, tackling one of them - knocking him to the floor -</p><p>“No!” shouts Gil, as the men close in around him, “run, get out of here!” - they’re grabbing his shoulders, his legs, lifting him, too many to fight even if Gil had his hands free. Malcolm lunges for another but they’re on him too, pulling him backwards, wrenching him away as he kicks and twists —</p><p>“No,” he yells, “<em>help!</em>“ because there’s no sound of gunfire, no threats coming from behind him. He’s knocked to the floor and lifts his head, just in time to see the door where his father was standing swinging closed. “No,” he croaks out, struggling against the hands seizing his arms, wrapping around his legs, “dad -!”</p><p>But his father has gone - taken the gun and gone. The hands lift him, bear him away into the darkness of the corridor… and if Dr Martin Whitly hears his screams, he does nothing to answer them.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Out of the Frying Pan...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to everyone reading and commenting on this story 💜 Just to say, things are getting pretty intense in the next few chapters, so please heed the tags - don't read if it's not your cup of tea. </p><p>If it is... hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Malcolm is rushed along like a twig in a river, powerless in the arms of the men carrying him. Shiv Man is somewhere ahead of him, and when he lifts his head he can glimpse more men carrying Gil, keeping him silent with an arm around his throat. His struggles do nothing to dislodge the iron grip on his arms and legs and when he tries to shout one of them punches him in the solar plexus, leaving him gasping, hanging limply in their grip.</p><p>The ceiling swerves above him. He’s carried up a staircase, feet first, as if he weighs <em>nothing,</em> the world swinging around him dizzingly… and if it’s making Malcolm feel sick, he can only imagine how it must feel for Gil. The men are shouting to one another, laughing, tugging him between them. From below, their faces are nightmarish, blood-red - their eyes darting flashes of white, occasionally looking down at him in glee or malice —</p><p>A door slams closed behind him and the men stop. “Shoes off,” says a voice and then hands are wrenching them off his feet. “Laces!” says someone, with what sounds like sincere happiness. Malcolm strains upwards, searching for Gil as he’s carried to the end of the room, turning into a smaller one lined with cupboards and shelves. He’s brought in just in time to see the men ahead of him drop Gil unceremoniously onto the floor. He makes no move to sit up or move from where he’s landed and Malcolm goes cold with fear.</p><p>“No - let me go,” he rasps, wrenching against their grip and the men oblige him, dumping him on the ground. Malcolm’s crawling to Gil the second he’s free of them, too shaky to try to make it to his feet. Gil’s slumped on his side and Malcolm rolls him onto his back, curling over him, half expecting to be dragged away from him again - but the men leave him to it. They move out, back into the cavernous room beyond. None of them are watching to check they don’t try to run. <em>Because they’re hopelessly outnumbered with no chance of escaping,</em> notes the corner of his mind not anxiously scanning over Gil.</p><p>“Gil,” he whispers urgently, shaking him by the shoulder, and the man’s eyes flutter open. It takes a second for understanding to dawn in his gaze, before it's swiftly replaced by fear.</p><p>“No,” he mutters, looking more scared than Malcolm has ever seen him, and the expression on his face shakes Malcolm as much as anything else that’s happened in the last few minutes. “No, no, kid… I told you to run…” He struggles to sit up and Malcolm helps, half-propping him up against a steel unit as he kneels beside him. Gil closes his eyes again the moment he’s upright, and Malcolm flashes back to the moment the Surgeon smashed the gun into his head, the sickening <em>thud</em> the impact had made. <em>He should be in a </em><span class="u"><em>hospital</em></span><em>…</em></p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, not even sure what he’s apologising for - the cuffs or the concussion or dragging him into this mess in the first place. “I’m so sorry.” His hand tightens on Gil’s arm, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to give comfort or take it from the gesture. He knows if Gil had his hands free he’d be reassuring Malcolm, trying to place himself between him and their captors…<em> but Gil can do almost nothing to defend himself right now. </em>Malcolm swallows back his fear. Above everything else, he needs to keep them distracted from Gil for as long as he can…</p><p>“Where the hell are we?” mumbles Gil and Malcolm forces himself to calm, to look about and interpret the shadows around them. The room they’re in is lined on every side by brushed steel cupboards and units. Above them are rows of metal shelves and an industrial-looking sink. They’re in the serving space where staff must dole out the inmates meals; the serving hatch is still open, the countertops above their heads giving way to look out on the cavernous room they were just brought through… <em>the canteen, </em>Malcolm realises. Voices filter through the hatch. Beyond where they were carried in, Malcolm can see a glimpse of another room - the kitchen. More units lurk in the shadows there, fridges and ovens…</p><p>… and a guard, prostrate on the floor.</p><p>Malcolm checks Gil isn’t about to topple back over before shuffling on hands and knees to check on him. His pulse is steady, but there’s not a flicker on his face when Malcolm touches him, or rolls him onto his side into an approximation of the recovery position. He crawls back to Gil. “He’s alive,” he whispers, but he’s not sure Gil has even clocked the guard. He looks surprised to see Malcolm moving towards him, like he hadn’t realised he’d left. Malcolm suspects it’s taking all his concentration just to stay sitting upright.</p><p>“Malcolm… listen to me,” he manages. “You get a chance, you run. Promise me, kid. <em>Promise.</em>”</p><p>“If there’s a chance, we <em>both</em> run,” whispers Malcolm stubbornly. “And there will be. We can make it out of here. We just have to… pick our moment.”</p><p>Gil’s dark eyes finally seem to focus on his face, and for a second it looks like he’s going to argue… before perhaps realising it’s a waste of breath. That bewildered, frightened look that is so <em>un-</em>Gil has faded though, replaced by a kind of grim resignation as he takes in their situation, a stubbornness that feels far more familiar. “Listen,” he begins — when a shadow falls over them.</p><p>Shiv Man.</p><p>Malcolm feels Gil tense at his side.</p><p>Shiv crouches down so that he’s eye to eye with them, his gaze cool and calculating. “I think my friends are gonna to have fun with you,” he murmurs. He reaches towards Malcolm, just as Gil snarls,</p><p>“Don’t fucking touch him.”</p><p>Shiv looks at him in mild surprise. He crosses his arms amiably atop his knees, and for the first time Malcolm notices several strips of cloth clutched in his hand - along with the bloody shiv, still gleaming. His stomach clenches as he realises what’s coming.</p><p>“Don’t be jealous,” says Shiv softly, his eyes scanning over Gil. “I’m sure you won’t miss out.”He looks calmly between them, apparently immune to their twin looks of hostility boring into him. “I’m gonna tie you up now,” continues Shiv, tapping the makeshift blade against his chin. “You can fight… if you want. I don’t mind a good fight, myself. That’s up to you.” His hand lands on Malcolm’s shoulder and Gil twitches beside him, as Shiv looks at Malcolm philosophically. “But every punch you get in, I’m gonna pass on to your friend here.” He nods to Gil, who gives the man a look of pure fury. “Just so you know.”</p><p>He smiles at whatever he reads from Malcolm’s expression. “Lie down.”</p><p>It goes against every instinct to submit... to meekly lie back and <em>let</em> the man tie him up… <em>but there’s nothing else he can do. </em>Not without hurting Gil even more. Malcolm slowly lowers himself down andlets the man yank his arms roughly together. Lies still as his wrists, and then his ankles, are bound tightly, staring up fixedly at the ceiling tiles - distracting himself by counting out his breaths, trying to stop them from speeding up in panic.</p><p>“There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Shiv sits back and pats him on the thigh. The faintest smile curls his lips when Malcolm flinches at the touch and he deliberately reaches back and rests his hand in the same spot. “Don’t worry. I prefer to watch. Most of the time.” He reaches out and pushes Gil down onto the floor beside him. “Your turn. Same rules apply, if you’re thinking about kicking.”</p><p>A minute later and both of them are bound hand and foot on the floor, as helpless as they’ve ever been. Shiv gets to his feet and looks down at them, satisfied with his handiwork. “Good boys,” he murmurs.</p><p>“Fuck you,” snaps Gil.</p><p>“I’d save your energy, if I was you,” is his answer, with a smile that chills Malcolm’s blood. “You’re gonna need some of that fight pretty soon.”</p><p>He heads back into the main room, leaving them to reflect on that statement. Malcolm realises his breathing has sped up again.</p><p>“That doesn’t sound good,” he manages.</p><p>Gil grunts beside him. Malcolm can hear him testing the bindings on his legs, but if they’re anything like as tight as his own, then he must already know that it’s pointless. “I guess my ‘run when we get a chance’ plan needs some revision,” he adds, a thread of hysteria running through his voice, and he closes his eyes, feeling the wave of panic starting to crest in his chest.</p><p>“Stay with me, kid.”</p><p>Malcolm lets out a breathless, bitter laugh. “Not like… I can go anywhere.”</p><p>“We’re gonna figure a way out of this,” says Gil firmly, and Malcolm wants to weep.</p><p>“<em>We</em> shouldn’t be <em>in this!</em> You shouldn’t even be here… if I’d just listened to you, none of this would be happening -”</p><p>“This isn’t your fault, Bright. A guy like Endicott, he would have come after you whatever you did.”</p><p><em>But not </em><span class="u"><em>you</em></span><em>,</em> Malcolm thinks. He doesn’t say it, though. He knows Gil won’t see it that way.</p><p><em>If Endicott could see them now... (</em><span class="u"><em>can</em></span><em> Endicott see them now?!). </em>The man would be <em>loving</em> this. Yet the one person who could actually hurt Endicott, the one who knows where his secrets are buried, is safely hiding somewhere else, sure come out of this entire thing unscathed as a cockroach.</p><p>Where is his father, right now? Is he even thinking about what’s happening to his son?</p><p>Despite his best efforts, tears are starting to well up beneath his eyelids. He hears Gil take in a sharp breath beside him. “Bright. Come on, I need you. Help me up.” He feels Gil nudge his shoulder and he forces down the rising despair threatening to swallow him. <em>He needs to stay calm, for Gil.</em> The thought helps to ground him.</p><p>He pulls himself up into a sitting position, before clumsily reaching out with his bound hands to help Gil sit against one of the units. With his hands tied in front, rather than behind him, he’s got more mobility than the older man, and even if part of him suspects Gil only asked for his help to snap him out of his funk, it would be impossible to miss the way the older man’s features are drawn in pain... the way he seems exhausted by simply sitting upright. Malcolm’s been concussed an embarrassing number of times himself, but he doesn’t ever remember being affected by it the way Gil is. He wonders if Dr Whitly aimed the blow at some specific spot deliberately, to incapacitate Gil as much as possible while keeping him conscious… <em>maybe the injury is getting worse, causing Gil more and more damage with every minute it goes untreated…</em></p><p><em>No. </em>Dr Whitly lost his temper. He just struck out, that’s all. Even his father can’t be pulling their strings to such an extent as that. Gil’s been unlucky… but he’ll be ok.</p><p>
  <em>He has to be.</em>
</p><p>“Alright,” mutters Gil. “See if you can take a look out there, tell me how many of them we’re dealing with.” Malcolm manages to get onto his knees and crane upwards, peeking over the edge of the countertop into the cavernous room beyond.</p><p>Shiv is talking to a cluster of men at the far end of the room. On cue, one of them bursts into chilling, high-pitched laughter. More men are dotted around, sitting or standing or, in one case, dancing near one of the doors, more than fifteen in total… but Malcolm decides to rule them out for now as bystanders rather than participants. He focuses instead on the cluster who carried them here...</p><p>“Four. There’s more, but… I don’t know if they’re part of this.”</p><p>“You catch what they’re planning?”</p><p>“No.” Malcolm tries to study the men without being spotted - to work out which of their captors are calculating killers like Martin Whitly, men who got themselves a cushier deal to end up in here… and which might be truly, unpredictably<em> insane</em>. He hopes the fact that they appear to be working as a group means some kind of rationale is at work. If the men have a <em>plan</em> that Malcolm and Gil and the guard are somehow part of… that promises to go better for them than if they’d just fallen into the hands of some bloodthirsty inmates getting their first taste of freedom in years.</p><p>“Talk to me, kid,” murmurs Gil. “What’re you seeing?”</p><p>“The guy just in here, with the shiv… maybe he’s the leader,” whispers Malcolm. “There’s another one with tattoos,… maybe ex-military. More of a follower, from his body language. A guy with a beard - ” he looks twitchy as hell, Malcolm realises, but it’s too soon to tell if he’s more likely to lash out or run away, “- he’s kind of a wild card, harder to call. And… the other guy, with the French accent... I think…”</p><p>The fourth man, young and handsome, his face semi-eclipsed by blood, is listening to the others talking, his expression serene. Something about him looks <em>familiar…</em></p><p>Malcolm suddenly realises why he recognises him. He sinks back down to the ground beside Gil.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing.” Gil gives him his best <em>don’t bullshit me </em>look and it’s so pleasingly <em>Gil</em>, such a familiar slip back into their old rhythm, that Malcolm feels strangely reassured.</p><p>“Bright…”</p><p>“I think… I recognise him. I read about his case. Francis something, I can’t remember… but…” Malcolm swallows, knowing there’s no good way to come out and say this. “The press… called him the Butcher. He killed five people. He used to… hang his victims on meathooks.”</p><p>Gil digests this surprisingly calmly. “Ok, then.”</p><p>“Ok?!”</p><p>“We just need to keep a clear head,” says Gil, soothingly. “We’ve dealt with worse, kid.” <em>Does he mean on their cases together, or does he mean his father?</em> Malcolm wonders. His father, who is the reason they’re both here, in mortal danger.</p><p>
  <em>His father, who left him to die rather than waste a bullet.</em>
</p><p>“Kid?”</p><p>“Sorry,” mumbles Malcolm. Gil shifts against him, and Malcolm knows he’d be putting his arm around him if he could. <em>Gil’s in worse shape than he is right now,</em> he reminds himself, <em>he shouldn’t be the one comforting Malcolm. </em>He needs to get a grip on himself…</p><p>“JT and Dani - they know we’re in here, and they’re gonna be doing everything they can to get us out,” says Gil softly. “Might be SWAT are gonna come in through the door any second.” And Malcolm realises he’s right… even if the timing of that sounds hopelessly optimistic, their team know that they’re potentially in danger. Whatever they can do to get them out, or come in to aide them, Malcolm knows Dani and JT will be doing it…</p><p>There’s sudden noise and the four men - <em>Shiv, Tats, Wild Card, Butcher,</em> he names them mentally - appear at the end of the room.</p><p>He feels Gil trying to sit up straighter as the men form a circle around them. Above them, more figures appear in the window of the serving hatch, looking down at them curiously. Malcolm has to fight the urge to huddle closer to the older man. The part of him that’s shivering in fear wants to -<em> but that’s not the part in control, </em>he reminds himself. He has to swallow his fear and play this smart. <em>Look eager to co-operate, easy to control… and profile the hell out of them.</em></p><p>Tats frowns down at them and turns to Shiv. “You sure we need two of them?”</p><p>Butcher grins. “Two is more fun. I want them both.”</p><p>“Don’t need two,” mutters Wild Card. He doesn’t make eye contact with any of them, drumming his fingers urgently against his legs. He’s skinny and twitchy, his hair unkempt. “One. Only one. No extras. No.”</p><p>“I’ll take the spare,” shouts a voice from beyond the hatch and Shiv glares over at the man responsible.</p><p>“<em>No spares</em>.”</p><p><em>Shiv’s definitely leading this</em>, Malcolm decides. He’s relaxed, cool-headed… softly-spoken despite having an audience that might make most men speak up to be heard. He’s not displaying any signs of fear like Wild Card, or even nervousness, like Tats. Malcolm and Gil are just tools to Shiv - chips on a board in whatever game he’s playing.</p><p>Hopefully, it’s a game that Malcolm and Gil can play too.</p><p>“I told you,” continues Shiv, “might be we can use them. Let’s get that cop back on the phone.”</p><p>“What do you want with us?” Malcolm interrupts, and it comes out pretty steady, all things considered. “Are you trying to negotiate with the police? Because if you are, we might be able to help. We can co-operate. No one needs to get hurt.”</p><p>Butcher laughs, making Wild Card twitch violently. He leans down, looking at Malcolm reflectively. <em>The eyes of a predator</em>, catalogues Malcolm numbly, as if the blood dousing his scrubs didn’t tell him that already. Excitement and - <em>is that lust? -</em> lurk behind his playful smile. He murmurs something in French Malcom doesn’t catch, and then -</p><p>“What is your name, little one?”</p><p>Malcolm glares. “Malcolm.”</p><p>“Malcolm, you should know… people are <em>definitely</em> going to get hurt. How much it’s going to be you, or someone else - maybe that depends on how you and me get along.” His eyes flick to Gil, scanning the man appraisingly, looking delighted when Gil sneers at him. “If you play nicely Malcolm, maybe the hurt can happen to your friend here, instead.”</p><p>“Got it,” says a new voice, and a chunky red satellite phone is passed through the serving hatch.</p><p>“Give it here.” Shiv takes the phone. A moment later it’s ringing loudly on speaker, the sound echoing around the crowded space…</p><p>…. and then a familiar voice fills the room.</p><p>“This is Detective Tarmel. Who am I speaking with?”</p><p>Malcolm’s heart leaps. He feels Gil tense beside him, and prays the sudden hope he can feel welling up in his chest isn’t visible on his face. <em>Gil was right - their team are going to save them. </em>Gil <em>said</em> JT was trying to reach management, Malcolm remembers - clearly Endicott’s goons have taken out whatever management was left. <em>That means…</em> Malcolm’s heart sinks again. That means whoever’s outside Claremont trying to get in (and he can picture them, JT and Dani and more from the precinct, just beyond those walls, <em>so close) </em>have a much trickier job on their hands. <em>But still, they’re </em><span class="u"><em>here</em></span><em>. They’re coming… the two of them just have to hold on…</em></p><p>“Me again, Detective,” says Shiv calmly, and just the word triggers a chorus of obscenities from the men surrounding them - one of the men spits on the floor savagely. The sudden shift from excitement to raw hostility makes every hair on the back of Malcolm’s neck stand on end. Shiv lets the clamour go on for a few seconds before holding up a hand. His own voice stays measured and clear, as he continues: “You had time to think about my offer?”</p><p>“You had time to think about mine?” JT retorts. It sounds like he’s moving; there’s the sound of other voices in the background, the buzz of traffic. “You know this lockdown can’t last forever. Your lives aren’t gonna get any easier when this is over if we have dead bodies in there.”</p><p>“We found two more live ones... and me and my friends will be getting more. You want them to stay that way, we’re gonna need to talk guarantees… and you’re gonna have to play <em>nice.</em>” Shiv smiles coldly… <em>but there’s no urgency in his voice,</em> realises Malcolm; nothing about the man’s body language is telling him that Shiv is invested in whatever he's negotiating for. <em>This isn’t about him gaining anything, </em>he realises with a new swell of fear.<em> It’s about the game. It’s about power.</em></p><p>“I’ll need proof any hostages are alive and well before this conversation goes any further.”</p><p>Shiv crouches down in front of Malcolm and Gil, holding the phone out. “You heard the man. Why don’t you boys introduce yourself?”</p><p>Malcolm stares at the red phone and wonders if this night can get any more surreal. “My… my name is Malcolm Bright.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Malcolm can only imagine how JT feels - he must have been expecting to hear the unfamiliar voice of a guard. Instead, he has to find out like<em> this</em> that half his team never made it to safety…</p><p>Shiv glares at the phone. “Detective? You still there?”</p><p>“Mr Bright,” says JT finally… because of course he can’t let on that he<em> knows</em> them; that <em>they’re </em>police too. Malcolm’s willing to bet that whatever Shiv’s strategy is, finding out that he’s holding the Head of Major Crimes and a criminal profiler would guarantee their immediate, bloody executions. “Are you injured?”</p><p>“I’m ok, but the man I’m with - Gil - he has a pretty bad concussion.”</p><p>“Is Gil there?” asks JT, with a remarkable degree of self-control. It’s only because Malcolm knows him so well that he detects the anxiety underlying his question.</p><p>“I’m here,” says Gil, and the phone goes completely quiet - they’re on mute for maybe ten seconds - before JT speaks again.</p><p>“And the third hostage?”</p><p>“He’s unconscious,” chips in Tats.</p><p>“I need a name, and I’m gonna need Gil or Malcolm there to confirm he’s alive,” says JT. Tats checks the guard’s name badge.</p><p>“Wendell,” he says.</p><p>“A guard called Wendell is here. He’s unconscious,” confirms Malcolm. “But there’s another guard, Nicholls… he was stabbed, I don’t know if -“</p><p>The kick knocks him sideways, collapsing into Gil’s lap. “Hey!” shouts Gil, trying to curl over him, to shield him as best he can, as Wild Card suddenly leans over them both, screaming, spit flying from his mouth -</p><p><em>“No no no he didn’t ask, no!</em>”</p><p>Punches rain down on top of Gil’s shoulders. Malcolm kicks out frantically even as hands drag the man backwards and Butcher shoves him into the far corner of the room. “Shut the fuck up Pierce,” says Shiv calmly. Malcolm sits up shakily, staring at Wild Card as the man hugs himself, hissing something viciously under his breath. The other men barely raise an eyebrow. Butcher chuckles.</p><p>“The hell is happening over there?!” demands JT.</p><p>“Everyone’s fine, detective. Our boy Pierce had a little moment… but he’s calm again now. Isn’t he?” says Shiv pointedly, and Wild Card buries his head in his hands. “Yup. We’re all good here. As I said, I can keep things calm for you - or I can let nature take it’s course. That’s up to you.”</p><p>“Br - Malcolm? Gil?”</p><p>“Still here,” mutters Gil. “You ok?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” manages Malcolm.</p><p>“And now you’ve got what you need, Detective… let me spell out the situation for you. Either they die -all of them, and any more we come across - or you agree to my terms. You do that, they live. Maybe I’ll even come and let you in the front door myself.” Malcolm stares up at Shiv, frantically trying to figure out next moves from what he’s heard. Whatever Shiv’s asked for, Malcolm’s already sure there’ll be no way the NYPD will agree to it… so is JT buying time? Is there already a rescue plan underway, or are they hours away from being able to take action? It’s torture to have JT literally on the phone, and <em>no way</em> to ask…</p><p>“I’ll have to relay your terms to the Dean of Claremont,” JT answers finally. “And some people up the ladder at the NYPD - but I’ll see what I can do.“</p><p>“There’s no <em>see</em> about it. You give me 60% of what I asked, you’ll get 60% of these three back. Although maybe I’ll let you pick which pieces. You understand?”</p><p>“I’m gonna need -“</p><p>“I <em>said</em>,” says Shiv, unyielding as a steel bar, “<em>do you understand?</em>”</p><p>There’s a brief pause before JT responds, his voice a growl: “I understand.”</p><p>“Alright then.”</p><p>“I’m gonna need time,” says JT firmly.</p><p>“That’s up to you, Detective. But you should know, we’re gonna have a little fun while we wait. Call it an incentive, for you to talk the Dean into our way of doing things.”</p><p>“Any kind of deal will be off the table if -"</p><p>“You don’t decide the terms of the deal, Detective. And if you’re gonna drag your feet... then I can’t guarantee some of us won’t get carried away over here.” There’s a wave of laughter from the men behind the hatch.</p><p>“That’s not gonna work. We need all three of them <em>alive</em> and <em>unhurt -</em>”</p><p>“I’m afraid <em>unhurt </em>is off the table,” Shiv parrots softly, his mouth curling in a faint smile. “I’ll do my best to keep all of them alive for you, Detective, but we’ll have to see how it goes.”</p><p>“If you —“</p><p>He hangs up, tossing the phone back through the hatch to a surge of laughter. “Don’t answer it again for a half hour. You want results with those guys… you gotta turn the screws.” He eyes Malcolm and Gil with a satisfied look on his face as the phone starts ringing again immediately, shrill and insistent before it’s muted. “Next time we speak to the cops... you two are gonna be begging your lives.”</p><p>On cue, Butcher steps forward, looking from Malcolm to Gil, a smile spreading over his face.</p><p>“And in the meantime, we have - how do you say it? ‘Some time to kill.’ So… do I have a volunteer?”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Volunteer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“So… do I have a volunteer?”</p><p>“If you hurt us, whatever deal your friend just made isn’t going to come through for you,” says Malcolm desperately. “Not when the police find out.”</p><p>Butcher smiles that serene smile that’s starting to <em>seriously</em> creep Malcolm out. “Perhaps you are right, little one. Sometimes I get carried away… that might make things difficult. But then, two out of three survivors still is not bad… so, who’s it going to be?”</p><p>"Listen," Malcolm tries, because there must be <em>something</em> he can say to stop this, or stall them, <span class="u"><em>something</em></span><em>,</em> but his mind is spinning and coming up empty. "Just... just <em>wait -</em>"</p><p>“You want to beat the crap out of someone, pick me,” says Gil firmly, “but he’s right. This isn’t gonna end well for you.”</p><p>“No!” says Malcolm, turning on Gil in alarm, “you’re injured already - “</p><p>“Come on then,” says Gil, ignoring Malcolm, looking at Butcher disparagingly. “You’ve got us tied up. If that’s how you like to fight, go ahead.” Malcolm glares: he <em>knows</em> what Gil is doing, pushing Butcher’s buttons, trying to deflect his attention from Malcolm —</p><p>“You should be in a <em>hospital</em>,” he hisses. He looks up at Butcher. “If it has to be one of us, make it me.”</p><p>“<em>Mes enfants… </em>fighting over me,” says Butcher. “I’m flattered.” He looks up to the men on the other side of the hatch with a grin. “Maybe the audience would like a say. Shall we take a vote?”</p><p>There’s laughter, shouting from behind them - Wild Card whimpers, wrapping his arms around his head as voices call out, some for Malcolm, some for Gil, and <em>this is a nightmare,</em> thinks Malcolm. It doesn’t matter how well he figures out Butcher, what he reads into the man’s behaviour; it’s not gonna do a damn thing to stop one of them getting kicked to death on the floor of a prison canteen. “Bring em outside,” says Shiv, and then hands are grabbing them, dragging them out into the main room. Malcolm can’t even see where the doors are, the ends of the space swallowed by darkness. Tables and chairs have been pushed back to form a kind of central arena, with some of the men perched on top them to get a good view of whatever’s coming.The hands release him and for a second Malcolm just lies where he’s been left, overwhelmed by the shouts and jeers of the men watching them. He wants to curl up into a ball and just <em>vanish</em>…</p><p>“I think you win, mon cher,” says Butcher after a moment. He reaches down and grabs Gil by the collar.</p><p>“No! Leave him alone!” Malcolm throws himself forwards, skidding across the linoleum towards where Butcher is dragging Gil up onto his knees. Hands yank him backwards, and suddenly he’s encircled in a bear hug, trapped in the arms of Shiv, crouching down behind him.</p><p>“Ssh,” he murmurs, right into Malcolm’s ear. “Don’t spoil his fun, now -“</p><p>“No! Get off him - please don’t -"</p><p>Gil looks at the man defiantly, his face set in an expression that's more contemptuous than anything else. “Go on, then,” he says, and Butcher promptly knees him in the stomach, sending him doubling over until a hand in his hair drags him back upright again. The crowd are shouting, cheering, calling out suggestions for what Butcher should do next but Malcolm can hardly hear them over the thundering of his own pulse in his ears -</p><p>“Please! Stop -!“</p><p>Butcher’s fist smashes into Gil’s jaw - it would send him sprawling if not for his other hand in his hair. He lets go only for a backhanded slap to send Gil spinning to the ground again, head striking the linoleum as Butcher follows up with three short, savage kicks to his stomach. Gil lets out a moan that makes Malcolm’s heart seize, and within seconds Butcher’s digging his fingers into his hair and dragging him upright again. It takes Gil a moment to find his balance, for his eyes to focus on the man standing over him. Then he looks daggers at him.</p><p>“So fierce! And so… <em>distinguished</em>,” says Butcher happily. “You remind me of my papa. I have killed so many boys… but never an older man, you know?” He draws back his fist again -</p><p>“No - no, wait - Francis Giraud!!” The name comes back to Malcolm in a flash, a desperate burst of inspiration. “Francis Giraud! I know who you are!” Butcher turns to him, his eyes narrowed with sudden interest. “They… they called you the Butcher, right?”</p><p>The man smiles. “Ah! You’ve heard of me.”</p><p>“I have,” says Malcolm, “I know all about your work.”</p><p>“Shut up, Bright,” pants Gil. Butcher’s hand twists in his hair and he falls silent with a gasp of pain.</p><p>“I never liked the name ‘the Butcher’,” he shrugs. When he says it, it sounds like <em>bou-chair.</em> “It lacks… <em>precision.</em> I see myself as more of an artist. But artists are rarely understood in their own time. This comes later.”</p><p>“Right. Unless they’re forgotten entirely,” says Malcolm. “My friend there didn’t even recognise you. Cos you got caught right when you were getting started. You could’ve been a legend, like the Ripper, or the Surgeon. Famous. But instead you got caught and sent here and now most people on the street, they have <em>no idea</em> who you are. You were just a week’s news cycle, and then gone.”</p><p>The watching men have gone very quiet now. There’s just Malcolm, his voice high and breathless, and the sound of Gil’s panting. Butcher suddenly releases him, throws him down the floor without a backwards glance, and strides over to where Malcolm is held pinned against Shiv’s chest.</p><p><em>He’s dead. He’s </em> <span class="u"><em>so</em></span> <em> dead.</em></p><p>“You talk a lot, little one.”</p><p>“I… I have been told that,” stammers Malcolm. Gil spits blood on the floor behind them and shouts -</p><p>“Hey! We’re not done! That all you got?”</p><p>“You do not seem to understand that this is not a double act,” whispers Butcher, crouching down in front of him. “I’m having fun with your friend… nothing to do with you.” He leans even closer, almost nose to nose with Malcolm, who can only stare back at him, half-hypnotised, as the man brings his hand to rest gently over his breastbone. “Don’t push me too hard, now. You can pretend to be brave… but I see right through you, Malcolm. I can hear your heart, pitter patter… like a scared little rabbit.”</p><p>Butcher taps his chest gently, as if to drive the point home. He starts to get to his feet.</p><p>
  <em>To go back to hurting Gil.</em>
</p><p>“Not too scared to tell you you’re a failure,” Malcolm says. “You hurt and killed defenceless people… and you couldn’t even do <em>that</em> well enough to get away with it.”</p><p>Behind Butcher, Gil closes his eyes. Malcolm licks his lips nervously, waiting, as Butcher’s eyes bore into his…</p><p>Then he <em>moves,</em> grabbing Malcolm by the shirt front, slamming him onto his back in a move that knocks the air out of his lungs, smashes his head back against the ground. “I <em>knew</em> two would be more fun than one,” he smiles… and then he’s crawling on top of him, crushing him flat against the ground. Malcolm can hear Gil shouting but his head is ringing too hard to make sense of the words. Butcher’s weight on his already battered body is a torture of its own -<em>but it’s ok. He can handle pain; he </em><span class="u"><em>knows</em></span><em> he can. </em>It won’t be fun, but anything is better than watching the man beat Gil when every punch could be the one that sends him into a coma…</p><p>Butcher grabs him by the jaw, looks down at him pinned out on the floor. “Now, what should I do with you?”</p><p>“Don’t! Leave him!” It’s Gil’s voice, frantic, just a few feet away, “he’s got a smart mouth but he doesn’t mean it, ok? The kid doesn’t know when to shut up.”</p><p>“It’s not just the fact he talks… it’s what words come out of this mouth,” murmurs Butcher. He squeezes, forcing Malcolm’s mouth open, shaking his head back and forth on the floor. <em>Get off me,</em> Malcolm tries to say, but it comes out a garbled bunch of <em>aahs </em>and Butcher chuckles. “Are you going to make me punish you, little one? Or are you going to apologise?”</p><p>His hand relaxes and Malcolm wrenches his head as far as he can out of the man’s grip. “Get the hell off me,” he gasps.</p><p>“That… did not sound like an apology.”</p><p>“Which bit would you like me to apologise for?” asks Malcolm because, hell, he’s come this far. “The part where I told the truth, or the part where you couldn’t handle it?”</p><p>“Goddamn it, Bright!!“ Gil's shout sounds on the edge of panic, but it’s still better than the noises he was making when Butcher was kicking him on the floor. “Don’t -!"</p><p>His voice cuts out and Malcolm turns, trying to see what’s happening, but Butcher’s hand grips his jaw again, dragging him back to face him. “Ah ah, little one. Don’t look at him. Look at me. You think you have saved your friend? Oh no. When I’m done with you, I’m going straight back to finish what I started. But first…”</p><p>His hand releases his jaw, only for his entire arm to wrap around Malcolm’s neck, hauling him upright. Then he’s being dragged backwards by the throat, his heels scrabbling at the ground as the sound of laughter rises in his ears. “Up,” says Butcher, and —</p><p>There are hands on him - more than one set, and he’s being lifted - faces, Shiv’s and Butcher’s and Tats’ and others - wheeling above him as his back lands on the countertop, his legs kicking out at empty air. He’s beneath the opening of the hatch, the men crowding round on both sides, wrestling him flat against the cold steel. “Hold him,” says Butcher and Malcolm’s head darts round desperately, trying to spot him, to find Gil, to get a sense of what’s happening —</p><p>A hand lands squarely on his forehead, holding him still, restricting his vision to the dark swatch of ceiling tiles above him. “Gil?” he calls, hating how high and desperate his voice comes out but needing to know if he’s still <em>there</em>, if he’s ok -</p><p>Butcher’s face leans into view, that blood-stained smile hovering over him in happy anticipation. “You know, Malcolm… when I was child, if I spoke out of line? My mother would make me wash my mouth out. I think this is what we shall do with you.”</p><p>He sees a flash of silver - the metallic hose of the industrial kitchen tap weaving like a snake above him. “No,” he says frantically, “wait —!“ A hand grips his chin, tugging his mouth open even as he tries to grit it closed —</p><p>“Open wide,” coos someone else, and then -</p><p>A blast of water, a high pressure jet that punches him in the face, and everything else is lost under the roar. It’s<em> freezing</em>, so cold it’s like ice, hitting his skin so hard it stuns him - blinding him when it sprays across his eyes, smashing stars from his clenched eyelids —</p><p>The jet moves and then he’s choking on it, the spray battering into his open mouth, hitting the back of his throat so that he’s spluttering and retching within seconds. He twists against the hands holding him but he’s held firm and there’s no chance to recover - he chokes and only gets more water down his throat, up his noise, and when he coughs more of it floods into his mouth —</p><p>The deafening roar eases for a second and the spray turns off his face. Malcolm gulps in air, chest heaving. A shape blurs over him, but he’s blinded by the droplets still clinging to his eyelashes. “Still dirty, I think,” comes Butcher’s voice, and before Malcolm can take another breath the hose is back and his cry is garbled by the crashing force of the water. He can’t hear the men’s laughter under the spray, or figure out how many of them there are, or where Gil is - the jet steals his breath, his voice - his ability to think <em>at all</em>….</p><p>The hose cuts off again, leaving Malcolm gurgling and retching on the countertop. “Stop,” he gasps, “stop -“</p><p>“Soap,” orders Butcher and Malcolm jerks against the hands -</p><p>“No!! Don’t -"</p><p>- but they’re gripping his face again, though he’s so numb from the cold that he can barely feel them. His jaw is forced open, and then a thin stream of something is being poured directly into his mouth, filling it with the overpowering taste of chemicals. He gags, and then the water’s back and Malcolm’s drowning, detergent burning his throat as he chokes and writhes against the counter. Fingers push into his mouth, swilling the water round and he lets out a scream that sounds like a river bubbling. The hand pulls out and a second later it’s clapping over his mouth, pressing it closed until he’s forced to swallow the disgusting cocktail down.</p><p><em>He’s going to vomit</em> - <em>vomit lying on his back, and then he’ll be choking on that too…</em> Malcolm heaves, trying desperately to turn onto his side. The hose turns off, but there’s still the sound of running water from somewhere behind him…</p><p>“Rinse,” says Butcher. Arms wrap around his legs and lift them, angling him - hands grabs his biceps, press against his chest, bending him painfully backwards over the edge of the counter - manoeuvring him so that he’s hanging <em>upside down</em>…</p><p>… above him - a metal bowl, already churning with water - more and more pouring in to fill it. <em>The sink</em>, he realises, and he tries to squirm out of their grasp and curl upwards, but the hands are relentless. He’s helpless to stop himself being pushed down… <em>down…</em></p><p>The water swirls around him, soaking his hair, his forehead, already almost at eye-level and he slams them closed. The top of his head brushes the bottom of the basin. It’s only seconds until the water is covering his nose, thundering in his ears until they’re swallowed up too. The sounds of their laughter and his own struggling are muted, replaced by the steady rumble of the tap. He tries to take in as much air as he can through his mouth, gagging on the taste of soap. The water is splashing against his lips - rising over his chin —</p><p>The tap turns off. The water laps gently at his neck as the hands hold him steady. He hangs, suspended in a silent underwater cage.</p><p><em>The important thing,</em> Malcolm tells himself, <em>is not to panic.</em></p><p>The sharp edge of the counter digs into his spine where he’s bent over it. His lungs are starting to burn already. The water circles his throat, a cold ribbon around his neck that gently bobs up and down.</p><p><em>Francis Giraud never drowned any of his victims.</em> He’s at least… 70% sure of that.</p><p>The soap stings in his nose, coats his mouth in a chemical film that makes him nauseous. The pressure in his chest is building inexorably and the urge to struggle is building with it - to thrash and kick and probably concuss himself on the walls of the sink, but he knows fighting will only exhaust him further, make him lose focus on managing the growing ache his lungs. <em>But he can’t hold his breath for much longer…</em></p><p>Malcolm exhales…. slowly…. <em>slowly,</em> a thin stream of bubbles tickling up past his chin. There’s a noise far above his head. His head is swimming now, his heart swelling and stuttering, the pain in his chest unbearable. Animal panic takes over for a moment and he squirms, sending the water thrashing around him as he strains to lift his head above the surface —</p><p><em>But he can’t - he</em> <em>can’t</em>, and he can’t fight the instincts of his body anymore either - he inhales, water rushing in as his eyes fly open in panic - to a world of shadows and silver and bubbles blinding him as pain stabs into his lungs like a knife —</p><p>He’s pulled out, voices and laughter crashing back into him as he coughs up water. The upside-down units swing around him, the floor tilting above him like a ship on high seas. A pair of legs appears in front of his nose and then Butcher’s bending down, squinting at him critically as he gasps in air. “Encore,” he murmurs, nodding above him —</p><p>Malcolm’s plunged back into the sink, back into shadows and the soft roar of water in his ears. He didn’t catch enough breaths - his chest feels like someone’s cracked it open before he’s even started - he’s only going to last <em>seconds</em> this time. He writhes only for a hand to pat his chest lovingly; more hands grip his hips where he’s bent agonisingly back over the edge of the counter and Malcolm tries to buck them off, but no matter how much he wrenches, he can’t move, he can’t get free, he can’t <em>breathe —</em></p><p>And then, muffled and warped by water, he hears another peal of laughter - and a fist drives into his stomach. He’s utterly unprepared for it, sucking in a lungful of water in shock. Immediately his vision clouds, black and red smears exploding across his retina. Deep in his chest he feels something crumple, folding up on itself, collapsing under its own density - a black hole where his air used to be…</p><p>He doesn’t register being lifted out again. Only that he’s hacking up water, that a hand is patting his cheek. His chest feels like someone’s taken an axe to it. Malcolm opens his eyes dazedly to see that upside-down face smiling at him as he hangs there, dripping water. “Stop,” he croaks, but it’s barely intelligible.</p><p>“You are feeling sorry now, little one? You will choose your words a little more wisely?”</p><p>Malcolm’s only response is a rattling cough that feels like it’s going to split him open. All the blood has rushed to his head but he’s too wrecked to even attempt to curl upwards. Butcher gently combs through his soaking hair, looking at him beatifically.</p><p>“I hope you have learned your lesson, mon petit… but we shall see.” A gleam of happy anticipation glows in his eyes. “Let’s hang you up to dry.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Speechless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The hands release him and Malcolm slips into Butcher’s waiting arms. He can’t offer up any kind of resistance as they tighten around him; he’s too busy coughing up water, feebly sucking in as many deep breaths as he can manage. He’s being lifted… carried… he tries to squirm, to gain some purchase on what’s happening but he’s barely gotten his eyes open when he’s suddenly being raised up - something’s looped through the cloth fastening his hands - and then the arms release him.</p><p>He scrambles to get his legs to support him as his entire body weight hangs from his wrists, suspended from whatever he’s been tethered to. He comes to a teetering stop on the balls of his feet, his ability to balance shot with his ankles tied together. A few inches higher and he’d be swinging from the ceiling like a punching bag - as it is, he can only just reach the ground. Butcher looks at him in satisfaction, smoothing his damp hair out of his eyes almost tenderly.</p><p>“Ah… this takes me back,” he murmurs. “That’s better, isn’t it? Now you are right side up.”</p><p>Malcolm tries to pull away from him - and almost overbalances when Butcher obligingly steps back.</p><p>For a second the man just studies him, balanced precariously in front of him, a pleased smile on his face. Then he walks off, and Malcolm’s just <em>left</em> there. Strung up. Waiting.</p><p>Malcolm swallows. Because Butcher might have disappeared somewhere behind him, but now he’s conscious of all the other gazes fixed on him by the watching inmates, coming from every corner of the room. Some of them look amused, some curious - and some are eyeing him in a way that makes his skin crawl. He’s suddenly,<em> horribly</em> aware of how utterly exposed he is, with a rush of panic that almost takes his breath away. He can’t move a hand to block a blow - can’t kick out without nearly dislocating his own shoulders. He can barely stay balanced without toppling to the side and cutting off the circulation in his hands.<em> At least it’s not a meathook</em>, he tells himself, with what could be a tinge of hysteria…</p><p>No. <em>Don’t panic. </em>Malcolm tries to steady his breathing, to ignore his audience; craning his neck as much as he can to catch sight of Gil amongst the shadowy crowd. However vulnerable a position he’s in, whatever Butcher has planned for him next… he knows a portion of his anxiety will be calmed if he can just catch a glimpse of the older man and know that he’s ok. His gaze skitters over the inmates dotted around the canteen - some still watching him, others speaking in small clusters. Ahead, Tats has gathered a group around him, saying something about raiding commissary. One man watching from a corner blows him a kiss and Malcolm looks hurriedly away….</p><p>There’s no sign of Gil, and Malcolm’s stomach lurches in panic. <em>He hasn’t heard his voice</em>, he realises - not since he first provoked Butcher, and he knows there’s no universe in which Gil would sit quietly while watching the last few minutes unfold. <em>Have they taken him somewhere else…?</em></p><p>“Look at you… you’re shivering.”</p><p>Malcolm jerks in shock. The voice comes from behind him, and when he tries to turn to see who it belongs to he overbalances, gasping in pain as his wrists take the full brunt of his weight. The voice chuckles, and suddenly he’s being steadied from behind, hands gently circling his waist. He tries to pull away and the hands only hold him tighter, breath ghosting over the back of his neck. “Steady now... I've got you. Want me to help warm you up?”</p><p>“Get the fuck away from me,” Malcolm says, in a voice that’s tight with pain and panic. The hands release him but the man doesn't move. Malcolm can only stand there, shaking, <em>feeling</em> the warm heat of a body at his back… before the speaker finally circles round to stand in front of him. It’s a blonde man, tall and muscular; one he doesn’t recognise from earlier. He takes in the sight of Malcolm hanging there helplessly with mirth in his eyes... and reaches out to trail a hand down his chest. </p><p>“You know… a man in your position should be trying to make friends, not enemies. You wanna try that again?”</p><p>Malcolm tries to twist away, but it’s futile. He can hear something behind him; the sounds of struggling, muffled shouting - <em>Gil?!</em> - but he can’t focus on anything but the sight of the prisoner in front of him, slowly drawing closer, a taunting smile on his face. He tries to pull himself out of reach, as far away as he can get -</p><p>And the man’s boot savagely kicks his feet out from under him, sending Malcolm swinging back towards him, colliding against him - and then he’s caught, pressed flush against the man’s body. “No,” he pants, and he feels warm breath on his face as the man chuckles again, his hand reaching up to twine in his hair. Malcolm wrenches furiously, desperate to put some space between them, but his other hand is already sliding to his hip, <em>squeezing </em>possessively as it grips him in place and Malcolm yelps in shock. The man's eyes dart up to meet his own, gleaming with excitement - his fingers wandering deliberately from his side to brush over his stomach…</p><p>“Ah, ah.” It’s Butcher - and Malcolm has no idea where he came from, but his hand is landing warningly on the blonde man’s shoulder. “Find your own. I haven’t finished with him yet.”The hand in Malcolm’s hair twists, wringing a gasp out of him.</p><p>“How come you get both?” Butcher shrugs.</p><p>“Like I say… you can watch. But these two, they are mine.” His eyes flick to Malcolm. “Isn’t that right, little one? Unless… you would prefer to spend some time with your new friend?”</p><p>Malcolm can feel himself crimson; he glares, tears of pain in his eyes from the fingers cruelly digging into his scalp.<em> He won’t - </em>he refuses to demean himself by begging for the attentions of a <em>serial murderer</em> over a fucking <em>sexual predator. </em>“You can both go to hell,” he pants, and Butcher laughs approvingly. The hand at his stomach slides against him again and he lets out a cry of instinctive alarm - but Butcher’s hand is already grabbing the blonde man’s wrist, so fast Malcolm didn’t even see him move.</p><p>“Are you going to fight me for him… or are you going to let him go?”</p><p>It’s not a threat<em> -</em> it's an inquiry. Butcher seems genuinely curious, apparently utterly unfazed by the idea of brawling with the other man. Malcolm can only watch, chest heaving in panic as the two men look at each other, inches in front of his nose…</p><p>The blonde man spits and shoves Malcolm roughly away, sending him swinging from the tether. He scrambles to find his balance, to keep his eyes fixed on him as the man slouches off across the room, needing to know where he is, how far away. His skin is crawling, his heart pounding like a jackhammer. The man disappears into the shadowy fringes of the canteen and Malcolm’s still struggling to regain some shred of composure when Butcher pats his shoulder. He flinches violently.</p><p>“Ah, you were worried, little one? Don’t be. I would not give up you and your friend so easily as that.” Malcolm wants to say<em> fuck you</em>, but he’s too shaken to string a sentence together, and before he can try a sudden<em> crack</em> rings out, echoing through the canteen from somewhere behind him. <em>The sound of a slap, </em>he realises - as he sees Butcher’s attention shift to something over his shoulder. “Ah, he is almost as troublesome as you,” Butcher murmurs. “Let’s get him, shall we? Then we will see if you are ready to behave yourself.”</p><p><em>Gil.</em> Malcolm tries to pivot, to follow the man’s movements as he disappears behind him, but it’s impossible. He can only listen: to Butcher’s footsteps… a muffled grunt… a scuffling noise. “I’m afraid I did not hear that, Gil. You will have to speak up.” There’s a burst of laughter, and then -</p><p>“Come on, then,” drawls another voice. Malcolm recognises it - cool, contemptuous, faintly amused - <em>Shiv. </em>Something starts being dragged across the floor towards him, and he twists, dread already pooling in his stomach. A few seconds later, Shiv moves into his line of vision… and he finally lays eyes on Gil.</p><p><em>They gagged him,</em> is his first thought, and for a second Malcolm stops feeling any fear at all. His mind is swept clean by a surge of pure, uncomplicated <em>outrage </em>because <em>how fucking dare they?! </em>He watches, pulse thundering in his ears as Shiv drags him - <em>his boss, his mentor, his </em><span class="u"><em>family</em></span> - across the floor by the collar like a misbehaving dog. “See?” Shiv yanks Gil roughly up onto his knees, holding him in place before Malcolm. “Like I said, he’s still in one piece - so you can calm the fuck down.”</p><p>Gil seems barely conscious of Shiv’s words, or his grip on him, his eyes flying to Malcolm’s face. His gaze is so frantic with worry it’s like a gut punch… <em>because of course, he's probably seen <span class="u">everything</span> that happened; they probably made him <span class="u">watch</span>. </em>It’s just one more way he’s hurt the man since he dragged him into this nightmare, and a wave of guilt crashes over him. After everything, all the threats and violence, it’s the look on Gil's face that’s going to make him fall apart… right when he should be showing Gil that he’s ok, that he can handle anything they can throw at him. He tries to swallow back tears - even as he sees that one of Gil's eyes is darkened by a fresh bruise; that there’s fresh blood scored along his cheek. <em>T</em><em>hey hurt him anyway</em>, Malcolm realises, and he feels a new stab of pain in his chest...</p><p>“Gil here’s been quite a handful,” says Shiv conversationally. He rests his hand - still clutching the knife - on Gil’s shoulder, its point casually resting inches away from his throat. “You should watch yourself, kid. You’re gonna give the old man a heart attack.”</p><p>“Don’t <em>touch</em> him,” hisses Malcolm, fury and nausea roiling in his gut - when Gil says something emphatically behind the gag, pulling his attention back to him. It’s amazing, how much Gil can say in just the <em>look</em> he’s fixing him with. For a second, in spite of everything, it grounds him. Malcolm can read all the things the older man is trying to broadcast to him - concern and warning and reassurance - right there in his eyes...</p><p>And then Butcher is strolling back into his vision. He crouches down in front of Gil.</p><p>“Voila! You are happier now, eh? Now the two of you are reunited?” If looks could kill, Gil’s would have Butcher’s dropping dead on the spot… but instead the man just grins and pats his cheek. “Don’t worry, mon cher - I still have great plans for us. I will be with you in one moment…but first, I just need to finish up with your little friend.” Gil wrenches savagely against Shiv’s grip on his shoulders and Butcher chuckles. “So impatient to get started! I like it.”</p><p>He straightens up. He has something hidden in one of his hands, Malcolm realises, clenched in a fist - but he can’t make out what, and he tries to ignore the kick of fear that slams against his ribs. “Now then… let us see if you have understood your lesson.” Butcher looks at him solemnly. “You won’t be so rude again will you, little one? Not now that you have learned.”</p><p>Gil makes an urgent sound, his words unintelligible behind the gag, and Malcolm pushes down another sickening wave of guilt. He hates that Gil’s been rendered speechless by these men - and it feels horribly like colluding with them to ignore what he <em>knows </em>the man is trying to say… <em>but he has no choice. </em>He’d rather have Gil mad at him than Gil hurt - even if the look on the man’s face tells him that he<em> really</em> doesn’t feel the same way…</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>Malcolm swallows. “I’m not the fastest learner,” he rasps, and he tries to block out the furiously expressive noise Gil makes in response.</p><p>“No… I think not,” agrees Butcher. His smile sends ice down Malcolm’s spine. “You thought you could manipulate me, Malcolm. Distract me, insult me, make me dance to your tune… is that right? And now… I am still waiting for an apology.”</p><p><em>When he’s done with Malcolm, he’ll go straight back to Gil. </em>That’s what Butcher said… and that means Malcolm can’t let Butcher be done with him. If that means being half-drowned again, then so be it. He presses his lips together, obstinately silent.</p><p>Butcher sighs theatrically. He looks down to where Shiv is holding Gil in place, making sure he has a ringside seat to whatever’s about to happen. “I thought this might happen. Gil, can you give me any advice for how to make this one behave?” Gil glares at him mutinously, snarling something that’s stifled by the gag. “You said it yourself, no? ‘The kid does not know when to shut up.’ Even my punishment was not enough. So I think it’s time to fix this problem, once and for all.”</p><p>He looks back at Malcolm, and nods once, decisively. “I think I will cut out your tongue.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him, speechless with horror.</p><p>“Just as a warm up, of course,” Butcher adds, with a grin. “Before I move back to your friend.” He holds out his hand. Shiv considers… then steps forward, passing him the knife.</p><p>Gil reacts first, shouting something, trying to throw himself after Shiv. But Malcolm can’t speak, too stunned by what the man is proposing - and then Butcher’s hand darts out, catching his jaw before he can even think to react.</p><p>“<em>I told you</em>, Malcolm,” he murmurs chidingly, “I want to spend some time with Gil… but you <em>do not listen</em>. You try to get in the way, to change my mind. So. Let’s see you try to talk me out of my plans… when talking is no longer an option.” His grip tightens on Malcolm’s jaw, squeezing his mouth open. “Nice and still, now…”</p><p><em>No, </em>Malcolm tries to say, but the grip on his jaw traps the word in his throat. He tries to pull back, stumbling and swinging, but he has no leverage to yank himself free. “That’s right,” beams Butcher, and then he’s forcing the thing in his hand into the back of Malcolm’s mouth, wedging it between his teeth like a bit so that it holds his mouth open and he can’t spit it out. A hand fists in his hair, wrenching his head so far back his feet slip off the floor. Then he’s hanging from his wrists, throat bared to the ceiling as Butcher’s upside down face appears inches away from his own. His eyes sparkle at the terror he must see in every line of Malcolm’s face.</p><p>“I did warn you not to push me, Malcolm. Are you ready?”</p><p><em>No,</em> he tries to scream, and the sound he makes is nothing like a word. Shiv leans into vision, looking faintly displeased.</p><p>“He might bleed out,” he murmurs.</p><p>“It is a possibility.”</p><p>“Do you think he’ll still be able to scream, after?”</p><p>“Let us find out.”</p><p>The red blade comes up. Butcher is all eagerness; Shiv’s eyes are cool curiosity when they meet Malcolm’s own. He can hear Gil shouting, screaming into the gag, but there’s nothing he can do - nothing Malcolm can do except whine in terror as the knife slips into his mouth. He tastes metal and copper and the bitterness of his own adrenaline…</p><p>“Martin’s friends!”</p><p>Above him, Shiv and Butcher look up. </p><p>“Not now, Tiny.”</p><p>“Martin? What about Martin?”</p><p>“You met Martin’s friends,” says the voice happily. “We met already. What are you all doing?”</p><p>“Teaching this one some manners,” says Butcher, but he lifts the knife out of Malcolm’s mouth. Malcolm tries frantically to see where it’s gone; to spot Tiny, who must have wandered in at some point during the horror of the last few minutes, but Butcher’s hand in his hair holds him in place. “He knows Martin?”</p><p>Shiv suddenly leans over again to get a closer look at him, ignoring Malcolm’s panicked gaze.</p><p>“Wait… Malcolm? <em>Martin’s</em> Malcolm? You sure, Tiny?”</p><p>“They’re Martin’s friends. He told me.”</p><p>Butcher looks down at him again with an interest that would be unnerving if Malcolm wasn’t already half-faint with terror. “Is this right? You are Martin’s boy?”</p><p>Malcolm blinks up at him, not sure which answer might deliver him from the slice of the knife. It doesn’t matter: he can’t speak, he can’t nod or shake his head - all he can do is stare up at the man, imploring him with his eyes <em>not to do this...</em></p><p>Shiv disappears from his line of vision. A moment later and Gil’s breathing sounds louder in the background as Shiv asks: “Is that true? Is he the Surgeon’s son?”</p><p>There’s a pause. <em>Gil doesn’t know what to say either</em>, Malcolm realises; <em>he doesn’t know if the truth is going to make things better, or even worse</em>… Although it’s hard to imagine, right now, how things could get any worse…</p><p>“Tell the truth or I’ll cut out his tongue and feed it to you.”</p><p>“Yes,” says Gil finally. His voice sounds hoarse.</p><p>Butcher’s face hovers just inches above his own, studying Malcolm’s wide, terrified eyes as if searching for the family resemblance.</p><p>“Malcolm <em>Whitly…</em>” he breathes.</p><p>He chuckles, and a moment later Shiv is there too, looking down at him with a smile as cold as his knife. “Well, well, well. This changes everything, little one.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Where the Red Goes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>Butcher’s face hovers just inches above his own, studying Malcolm’s wide, terrified eyes as if searching for the family resemblance.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Malcolm <span class="u">Whitly</span>…” he breathes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He chuckles, and a moment later Shiv is there too, looking down at him with a smile as cold as his knife. “Well, well, well. This changes everything, little one.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The hand releases his hair and Malcolm curls over as much as he can, gravity finally helping him to spit the thing out of his mouth as he gasps for air. His jaw aches fiercely. His hands are shaking violently above him, rattling his body all the way down to his unsteady feet.</p><p>“Oh god,” he mumbles, trying to banish the visions of him drowning on his own blood, the blade slicing through muscle, his last words a gurgling mess no one would understand. He wonders if he’s going to vomit.</p><p>“Please, don’t hurt him. <em>Please…</em>”</p><p>It’s Gil - sounding more shaken than Malcolm’s ever heard him. He tries to lift his head to find him, but his view is blocked by Butcher, moving in front of him as if Gil hasn’t spoken.</p><p>“The Surgeon’s son!” marvels Butcher. “But you are a <em>celebrity</em>, Malcolm… how many people has your father killed? More than the rest of us put together!”</p><p>Malcolm closes his eyes at the admiration in Butcher’s voice, the stab of shame he feels at the reminder that his father still manages to be the biggest monster even when he’s in a room with Shiv and Butcher. They fly open again when he feels a hand cupping his cheek and he pulls away, unnerved not just by the gesture, but the look in the Butcher’s eyes. “Your papa… he is something of an inspiration, you know? A living legend. A man who was passionate about his work… who had <em>vision</em>. There are so few of us in the world.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him in dismay. An<em> inspiration</em>… His father is the epicentre of so much horror already. The very idea he might have in some way inspired the man standing in front of him too makes him feel nauseous. He’s suddenly aware that the background hum of chatter has fallen silent. The other inmates are all still, their eyes fixed on <em>him</em>… except for Tiny who he can see, curling up under a table in the far corner, apparently ready to go to sleep…</p><p>Shiv pushes into place beside Butcher. “So that’s where you get that mouth from.” Unlike Butcher, Malcolm senses Shiv is <em>not</em> a fan of Martin Whitly. His eyes roam over him where he hangs from the ceiling, cold and flat like a shark’s. “Like father, like son. He talks about you a lot. The apple of his eye.” Malcolm swallows. “Your dad’s a manipulative bastard too. You know that?”</p><p>“I am aware,” Malcolm croaks.</p><p>“He says you are the same,” says Butcher ruminatively. “I did not know you were one of us.”</p><p>“We’re <em>not</em> the same,” he says, before he’s even had time to think through if the denial is a good idea. It’s reflexive, spilling out of his mouth in a surge of hot anger that bypasses his brain and comes straight from his heart.</p><p>“Oh? You never thought about following in your father’s footsteps?” asks Shiv. “That’s not the way he tells it.”</p><p>“He’s a liar,” says Malcolm. “If you know him, you’ll know that.” The two men glance at each other.</p><p>“I’m sensing a little <em>tension</em> in your relationship,” says Shiv, “yet here you are. You must have been visiting him to end up in here. Are you lying to us, Malcolm?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“So why are you here?”</p><p><em>To help with a case.</em> The answer that will probably see him bleeding out on the floor in the next thirty seconds, but god help him, he can’t think of another reason to give them. Butcher raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“I don’t think he’s being honest,<em> mon ami</em>.”</p><p>“Of course not. He's Martin’s son,” says Shiv, and <em>his father has </em><span class="u"><em>definitely</em></span><em> pissed this guy off,</em> he thinks numbly. <em>Perfect.</em> <em>Way to go, dad.</em></p><p>“Answer the question, little one. I let you keep that tongue for a reason.”</p><p>“I was… I needed answers.”</p><p>“About what?”</p><p>Malcolm licks his lips. “The… the past. Things he did… when I was a kid. I was too young to remember properly.”</p><p>“What a childhood you must have had,” breathes Butcher, and Malcolm has no idea if it’s fascination or envy in his voice. He reaches forward again, resting his hand against Malcolm’s cheek. “Do you love your papa, Malcolm?”</p><p>The question is so unexpected that Malcolm just stares at him, mouth falling open. He realises both men are looking at him, waiting, and he has no idea what the right answer is, or even the honest one.</p><p>“It doesn’t matter,” says Shiv finally. “Martin loves <em>him</em>. That’s what counts.” His gaze roams over him, excitement glowing in those normally cool eyes. “Good thing you didn’t cut his tongue out. I want Martin to hear him screaming from wherever he’s holed up.”</p><p>“There we go, Malcolm… your wish is granted! You get to be the main event,” says Butcher, throwing out his arms expansively. “The Surgeon’s son for my next work! I think I will be famous enough, after this!” Malcolm stares at him numbly, the words slowly filtering down through his panicked brain. “And to think I was risking letting you go so soon… what a waste that would have been.” Butcher glances back at Gil and gives him a shrug. “There you go, Gil - he will take your place after all.”</p><p>“No! Leave him alone,” begs Gil, “for God’s sake just… <em>stop</em>. He’s nothing like his father!”</p><p>“Blood is blood,” says Shiv.</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” says Gil desperately, “if you want to hurt someone, hurt me.”</p><p>“Patience, mon cher. Maybe there will be time for us to have some fun together later. But plans change.” Butcher bends down, picking up the discarded gag.</p><p>“No, just <em>wait</em> -" Gil’s eyes flick up to Malcolm’s, and the fear there, the fear of what these men might do to Malcolm while Gil can only watch, is so raw it makes Malcolm’s breath catch. “Bright, please -!”</p><p>Malcolm’s not sure what Gil’s asking - <em>for him to somehow talk the men out of hurting him? To talk them into hurting Gil instead? </em>He never finds out. Butcher forces the gag back into his mouth, tying it tightly behind his head and smiling at the moan of pure despair Gil makes. “Calm down,” Shiv says, with callousness that makes Malcolm’s jaw clench. He leans back against the wall beside Gil, his eyes raking over Malcolm in satisfaction. “You’re gonna do yourself an injury. Just shut up… and watch the show.”</p><p>Him. His execution<em>. </em><span class="u"><em>That’s</em></span><em> the show.</em></p><p>Even through the new swell of fear that swamps him; the grief he feels at the pain in Gil’s eyes, Malcolm knows: <em>if it has to be one of them, it should be him. </em>At least he’ll have done one thing right since he dragged them both into this nightmare - he’s bought Gil a chance. He looks over to the older man, trying to convey that it’s <em>ok</em>, that it’s better this way —</p><p>And then Butcher blocks his view. His eyes are alight with pleasure.</p><p>“Martin Whitly’s boy,” he murmurs, as if he can’t believe his luck. His hands move to Malcolm’s collar, slowly unfastening his tie. “Let me see what we are working with.” His fingers start to unbutton Malcolm’s shirt and he tries to twist away - but it’s futile. Butcher works steadily down and parts the material, exposing his chest. His hand presses down again over Malcolm’s heart, skin to skin this time. “There it is,” he murmurs with a smile. “So fast again. And we’ve barely begun…”</p><p>“Begun what?” Malcolm manages. He’s light-headed with terror, but a certain calm has come with knowing that he is to be the sole focus of Butcher’s attentions. He just has to try and forget the fact that Gil is on his knees a few feet away, a helpless witness to everything that’s about to happen…</p><p>“Pleasure is in the anticipation, little one.” Butcher tuts, his fingers tracing the outline of the already dark bruises around Malcolm’s ribs, the scrape left by Hulk’s boot earlier, sending Malcolm shuddering under his touch. “Who did this to you, eh?” He presses down with a finger on a tender spot and Malcolm gasps, trying to squirm away. “I prefer to work from a blank canvas… but we must make do with what we have.”</p><p>His hands come up to Malcolm’s shoulders and he pivots him, the bindings around his wrists tightening painfully as he’s flipped to face the opposite corner of the shadowy room. Not being able to see Butcher, to anticipate his movements, makes it even worse. He feels him lift his shirt to examine his lower back. “Don’t,” grits out Malcolm, not even sure what the man is doing, but the feeling of those hands caressing his skin, unnervingly gentle, has him completely on edge. Butcher ignores him.</p><p>“And again! Such a shame… to have an amateur spoil skin like this. You have been busy, Malcolm.”</p><p>“You should see the other guy,” he manages, and Butcher chuckles appreciatively. He racks his brains for any details of Butcher’s murders, but either from exhaustion or panic he can’t dredge much up beyond meathooks and, totally uselessly, the names of the arresting officers. He can hear Gil, struggling and protesting in the background, and he tries to twist around to see him -</p><p>“No, mon petit. This will need <em>all</em> your attention.” Butcher catches the back of his head and neatly turns him so that he’s facing forward again. Then he feels a hand press down on a particularly deep bruise that spreads from his hip to his spine and he jerks in pain.</p><p>“Ah… is that tender?” When he doesn’t answer, Butcher presses down until Malcolm bites his lip. He wants to be as stoic as he can for Gil, even though the pain is bringing tears to his eyes. Butcher presses even harder -</p><p>“<em>Ahh!</em>”</p><p>“I thought so,” he murmurs in satisfaction. “<em>That</em> is the shade we’re going for. Only… here, instead.” A finger taps gently against his right shoulder blade. “Are you ready?”</p><p>“What?” he gasps. “I don’t —"</p><p>Butcher slams something - his elbow, a weapon, Malcolm has no idea - as hard as he can into Malcolm’s shoulder, so brutally fast and vicious it takes him a second to actually <em>feel </em>it —</p><p>Then he <em>screams.</em> Agony rips through him, waves of pain rippling out from what must be a bone deep bruise. He barely feels the fingers grabbing him, holding him steady, until another blow smashes down - this time to the back of his ribs and he chokes, too breathless from his cries already to scream the way his body wants to. His entire body swings with the impact, leaving him reeling and swaying from his wrists until Butcher’s hands steady him from behind. He tries to pull away and the grip tightens.</p><p>“<em>Calme</em>, little one. I need you still for this.”</p><p>Hands run gently over his spine, up and down, probing and stroking. He hears Butcher humming thoughtfully until they finally pause, half way down his back. One hand snakes round to his chest, holding him in place. “No,” Malcolm gasps, the word barely a whimper as he realises what’s coming, “wait, don't - please -"</p><p>The strike to the centre of his back, right on his spine, makes him black out for a few seconds. His scream tears his throat. His whole body arches in response to the pain; pain that contorts as he does, every movement sending out new, nauseating pulses that leave him weak and gasping. “Oh god, stop,” he moans, but the hands are on him again, gripping his hips, spinning him back round to face Butcher.</p><p>“Ssh.” A finger presses against his lips. Malcolm swallows back a sob as Butcher studies his chest with concentration. “This is only the base coat.” His eyes flick up to Malcolm’s own, and the light dancing in his eyes makes Malcolm’s heart falter.</p><p>“What about… the police?” he tries. “Your deal… ”</p><p>“As long as we have a hostage, they must listen. One hostage, two hostage - it makes no difference to me,” shrugs Butcher. “But your papa… he will be very sad when he hears about what happened here.”</p><p>Malcolm actually <em>giggles</em>, skirting the edge of hysteria, and Butcher takes his hands off him for a second, taken aback by the sound. <em>Wrong!</em> he thinks. His father won’t care. There are strangers in uniform outside the building right now who’ve never met Malcolm in his life, who are doing more and working harder to get him out of this than Dr Whitly.</p><p>“Would you like me to take a message to your father, Malcolm? Any last words for him?”</p><p>“I’ll pass,” he rasps, and Butcher shrugs. Then a blow smashes into his collarbone and he screams in pain, collapsing dizzily from the tether. The strain on his shoulders, the bite of the restraints, are agony enough and he’s still hanging limply, trying to breathe through it when Butcher follows up with two more hits to his ribsEvery hotspot that’s been pounded into his body clamours for attention at once and it’s all too much… he drifts for a moment, on the edge of consciousness, the man’s voice floating above him…</p><p><em>Butcher is right.</em> '<em>The Surgeon’s son'…</em> <em>that’s how he’ll be remembered.</em></p><p>And Endicott’s story was right, in its own strange way. He will die a victim of his father.</p><p><em>What did he expect?</em> <em>The Surgeon tried to kill him when he was a child…</em></p><p>But he <em>didn’t. </em>And then Malcolm grew up. His father watched him become a man, with an interest that had felt oppressive, exposing - that had made him want to run screaming most of the time… it had never occurred to him that it was a lie. Just a way for Martin to pass the time. Maybe Malcolm didn’t think it was <em>love</em>, but he thought it was something. Something more than what it’s been revealed as tonight. <em>His own father, who has known him and studied him all his life… still didn’t think he was worth saving.</em> Somehow, it doesn’t matter that he’s a psychopath, a narcissist, a goddamn serial killer.</p><p>It still hurts.</p><p>Butcher’s fist smashes low into his stomach, driving the air out of him in a pained wheeze. Malcolm snaps back into his body to find himself hanging agonisingly from his wrists and he stumbles to get his legs under him. Butcher actually <em>helps</em>, his arms curling around him to steady him, pulling him close and Malcolm wriggles weakly. “Don’t,” he moans, because he’d rather hang there - the pain is better than having the man <em>embrace</em> him like this, his hands moving lovingly over every bruise he’s just created…</p><p>“What is this?” Butcher’s fingers rub over the scar on his side where Watkins stabbed him<em>.</em> “What happened here?” He straightens up, mercifully taking his hands off Malcom’s body in favour of catching him by the chin. “Talk to me,” he says reprovingly and Malcolm’s eyes flick weakly up to that blood-streaked face.</p><p>“You’re not… my first,” he sneers, managing to dredge up some defiance from under the pain and exhaustion. Butcher raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“You are full of surprises, little one.” He grins, holding up the shiv. “I will have to settle for being your last.” Malcolm stares at it, wide-eyed. He can hear Gil again; anguished pleas mangled by the gag. He’s lost track of where Gil is, though; it’s hard to focus on anything, in the semi-darkness, that isn’t Butcher, or the dancing tip of the blade. He watches numbly as it rises above him, digging into the soft flesh of his forearm, and can't help crying out in pain as it’s dragged down, scoring a long line of red.</p><p>He feels hands on his chest and tries to brace himself for the pain, pain he remembers from when Watkins jabbed the blade into him. His breathing speeds up despite himself, his whole body trembling in anticipation.<em> It’s so much worse, having felt it before - knowing how badly it’s going to hurt…</em></p><p>But Butcher doesn’t stab. He trails the blade idly over his skin… and then flicks it, light as a brushstroke. The movement opens up a thin red gash, stinging but shallow. He does it again, and then again, working across Malcolm’s chest, enacting some secret design that only the man himself can see. Malcolm winces and gasps but he tries not to cry out again, not with Gil watching. <em>He can handle this… </em>the beating has his head swimming, his body screaming, but he can take it;<em> he has to stay strong, as strong as he can…</em></p><p>The knife comes up to his face, Butcher’s smile beaming behind it. He rests the point gently at the corner of Malcolm’s eye and Malcolm forgets how to breathe.</p><p>“Stay <em>very</em> still now, little one…”</p><p>Butcher digs it in gently. Malcolm can feel a bead of blood welling up below the blade, sliding down his cheek like a tear. He’s too scared to speak and jar the knife, and he knows Butcher won’t listen anyway, so all he can do is stay as still as he can, the same plea racing through his mind: <em>please don’t, please don’t, please don’t…</em> Butcher examines his face for an agonisingly long time, lost in his own world, studying, <em>deciding. </em>Then his hand moves, so fast Malcolm cries out - but it’s just another flick, the knife flying lightly across his cheek. Malcolm feels wetness there, the sting of the cut, but it’s the shock of it that makes tears well in his eyes. That, and the fact that the man can mark his face so deliberately… and Malcolm can do <em>nothing</em> to stop him…</p><p>“Perfect,” Butcher breathes. His eyes glow with a kind of reverence as he takes in his handiwork. His face swims in front of him, a hand rising up to trace the bloody line he’s left behind…</p><p>And then it’s slapping him lightly around the face, and Malcolm realises he lost consciousness. He’s starting to miss things, patches of time, the connections between one moment and the next flapping loose: <em>Butcher’s hand, cupping the back of his head. Butcher lifting him back onto his feet. Butcher studying his battered body.</em></p><p>“Stay with me, Malcolm,” he murmurs. “It is not time for you to go just yet.”</p><p>“Please,” mumbles Malcolm. He knows there’s no turning Butcher back, not now, but the words come anyway. “Y’don’t have to…”</p><p>“This is not about necessity, Malcolm. It is about pleasure. You make me very happy.” He traces his fingertips over a particularly savage bruise just above Malcolm’s hip and sighs in contentment. “But your friend… he looks very unhappy. He must care for you very much. Like a father.” His hand gently brushes away a tear Malcolm didn’t know had fallen. “Don’t cry, little one. My father… was not a good man. Your father is not a good man either, we have this in common, but mine - he did not care for me. <em>You</em> will leave this world with two fathers mourning you. Some would say you are very lucky indeed.”</p><p><em>Gil... </em>Gil is going to have to watch him die, and then Butcher will hurt him next. It hurts more than anything else that the man has done to him and wrenches a sob from his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s for Gil - he’s too wrecked to get his balance, to find him on the floor behind the man smiling down at him, but he knows he’s there and he hopes he can hear him. “Gil… ’m sorry…”</p><p>“Ssh,” soothes Butcher, “stay still for me, now. It is time for the finishing touches.” His eyes return to the mark left by Watkins and he adjusts his grip on the knife for a steadier hold. The point of the blade pierces Malcolm’s skin just below the scar, and he bites back a whine. But Butcher doesn’t stab it in any deeper. His tongue between his teeth, he tugs it out again. Then he carves another slow, delicate gash beside it.</p><p>“What’re you… doing?” His voice comes out high with pain.</p><p>“I like to sign my work while it is still fresh.” Butcher adds a third cut, one that makes Malcolm let out a whimper he can’t bite back. He looks down, spellbound, nauseated, as the man makes another thin incision. He’s quite literally <em>carving</em> into him. Almost as much as the pain, shrill and sickening and screaming at him with every twist of the blade, the <em>idea</em> of it makes him feel faint. He clenches his nails into the palms of his hands, trying to distract himself.</p><p>“And… then what?”</p><p>“And then… the end, little one.” The blade scores along his ribs and Malcolm moans, unable to stop himself. His feet skid helplessly as he body tries to flinch away from the knife, but gravity is working against him. Every time he manages to pull away, his own weight sends him swinging back onto the blade. “One final cut - nice and deep - and we see how long it takes. I am not sure where yet. Where the red goes… it changes every time.”</p><p>Part of Malcolm has been holding out for rescue, for JT and Dani and a SWAT team to come bursting in through the door, but it’s harder to imagine it happening with every passing minute. It’s hard to believe the world is spinning on beyond these walls the way it always did; that it wasn’t always this endless night, with everything before it like a dream. “It doesn’t… have to be… the end,” he croaks. “I can… take more.”</p><p>“But you are perfect as you are. No… <em>nearly</em> perfect.”</p><p>Butcher rubs his fingers together. It takes Malcolm a moment to realise he’s examining the blood, shiny and dark, coating each fingertip. <em>His</em> blood. Butcher daubs a little of it on his chest before he dips his fingers back to the ribbon running out of Malcolm's side…</p><p>…and then he’s being slapped awake again, harder this time. <em>He fainted. </em>Someone is moaning; far away a door swings closed with a heavy clang. Butcher’s bloody, beaming face moves back and forth in front of him, blurring under the dim lights, and Malcolm understands he’s deciding where to use the knife.</p><p>“The final touch,” he says, his eyes glowing with delight. A child with the biggest and best present still left to unwrap. “I think… your throat. Like a smile. Just one stroke, and it will be fast. That is my gift to you, Malcolm.” He looks back, over his shoulder. “And my gift to you, Gil… I will let you say goodbye. Let him talk.”</p><p>And then… Gil’s voice floats of the darkness, a tortured gasp. It doesn’t feel real. “No,” he’s pleading, and the pain in his voice <em>hurts.</em> “Jesus, <em>please… </em>Please don’t. Take me, instead. Just don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.”</p><p>“Gil,” he sobs, but only silence answers him. Gil’s already gone: there’s just Butcher shimmering in front of him, his entire future and horizon. Malcolm’s too weak to move, to get to his feet and look beyond him, even though he wants to see Gil<em> so badly</em>. He wants to see him; he doesn’t want to die alone with Butcher, and he feels a terrible guilt… <em>because he’s never heard Gil so afraid and desperate and <span class="u">still</span> he wants to see him... would make him watch, just so he didn’t have to die alone…</em></p><p>Butcher gently thumbs away his tears, his expression tender. Malcolm’s voice is barely a whisper, rubbed soft by screams. “Please, Francis… don’t…“</p><p>“<em>Courage</em>, mon petit. It is time.” Butcher holds up the knife, and catches Malcolm’s chin in his other hand, tilting his head back.</p><p>He hears him inhale deeply. Hears the smile in his voice as speaks:</p><p>“Red was always my favourite colour.”</p><p>The knife comes up, and red sprays everywhere.</p><p>Over his face, warm and wet. A roar in his ears. He’s falling…</p><p>
  <em>No…</em>
</p><p><em>Something else is falling…</em> warm and heavy against him, sliding down his body to his feet. Butcher beams up at him from the ground, his smile as wide as ever... eyes open and empty, staring at nothing.</p><p>And around him, the red spreads.</p><p>
  <em>So much red…</em>
</p><p>It glides across the ground, fanning out like a halo, dark and shining and creeping along. Malcolm’s eyes follow it as it reaches… towards Gil, his eyes shining too, fixed on Malcolm with an expression he’s never seen before on his face. His cheeks are wet with tears.</p><p>Footsteps echo out ahead of him, slow and measured. He can see Shiv gripping Gil harder, hugging him against his torso, a shield against the man approaching. But Malcolm doesn’t have the strength to move. He can only wait and watch, as a pair of feet walk into view…</p><p>And then his father stands before him, the gun in his hand.</p><p>“Oh, my boy… what have they done to you?”</p><p>Malcolm can’t speak. It’s like a dream when Martin crouches down and takes the knife from Butcher’s loose fingers, severing the bindings around his ankles. When he reaches up and unhooks him from where he’s been tethered, catching him as he falls. His shoulders feel unhinged; his bound hands drop to his front like lead weights. “It’s ok, son. I’m here now.” Strong arms hold him up, and Malcolm lets himself be held. The world around him is spinning, blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision, his own body a dead weight, beyond his control.</p><p>“Dad,” he mumbles. A small voice is screaming at him, that the danger isn’t over, that his father isn’t <em>safe</em>… <em>but he wants so badly to be safe, </em>for the pain to stop, and he remembers his father holding him like this when he was just a boy; back when he knew that he loved him; when there was no one braver and stronger in the whole world.</p><p>
  <em>He came back…</em>
</p><p>“Martin,” says Shiv, and <em>Gil… </em>Gil is with Shiv. <em>Gil isn’t safe</em>.</p><p>Malcolm’s eyes fly open. He jerks weakly, but Martin holds him steady against his chest, the gun held out in front of them, pointing right at Shiv. Malcolm’s eyes struggle to focus, but he can see Shiv watching Martin warily, and Gil…</p><p>Gil is slumped against the wall by his feet, tied and gagged but <em>alive, </em>his eyes on Malcolm.</p><p>“Let'm go,” manages Malcolm, the words slurring out of him like he’s drunk, and Shiv takes his hand off Gil’s shoulder, taking a step back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The gun stays on him, unwavering. His father's voice sounds in Malcolm's ear.</span></p><p>“I should kill you, for what you did to my son.” </p><p>“What Francis did,” says Shiv, his voice soft and steady as ever. “He’s dead.”</p><p>“Too fast,” agrees Martin ruefully. “But desperate times…”</p><p>“You going to shoot me?” Shiv's tone is matter of fact; his expression hard. <em>Yes,</em> thinks Malcolm, <em>shoot him</em>… and then he feels a wave of nausea<em>. Because he would kill Shiv to save Gil - he wouldn’t think twice about it…</em> and if he wasn’t already only held upright by Martin’s arm, his knees would buckle at the realisation…</p><p>“... No,” says Martin finally. “You live… and we call it even. An end to hostilities. That’s the deal.”</p><p>Malcolm’s head is spinning, because <em>his father was merciful… more merciful than </em><span class="u"><em>he</em></span><em> was. </em>Martin adjusts his grip and Malcolm moans, the pressure and movement triggering stabs of agony all over his body. “My boy,” Martin murmurs again, “my poor boy.Let’s get you somewhere safe and patch you up.” <em>Safe.</em> It’s almost enough to make him let go right now, to sink into the blackness threatening to swallow him... but he won’t let himself, not yet.</p><p>“Gil… Need…. t’help Gil.” </p><p>“Ah yes. The <em>Lieutenant</em>,” murmurs Martin. He looks at Gil, watching them silently from the ground. “Don’t you worry, Malcolm. I’m going to take care of everything.” He turns his gaze back towards Shiv, and lowers the gun. “I’ll tell you what… to show there’s no hard feelings, you can hang on to this one.”</p><p>His hands lock around Malcolm’s chest, snug beneath his still-bound arms, before Malcolm can process what he's just said. “No," he breathes,<em> refusing</em> to believe it, because he <em>can't -</em> "no, dad, <em>no -</em>"</p><p>“Oh… and just so you know? He’s a cop.”</p><p>Shiv’s eyes flash. He steps back towards Gil as Malcolm’s dragged to the shadowy doorway - too weak to break free, too weak to do anything but watch. He can see the defiance, the <em>fear</em> flaring in Gil's eyes, and he pulls desperately against his father’s grip, screaming raggedly -</p><p><em>“No! </em>No, no, <em>please!</em> <em>GIL!!</em>”</p><p>But Martin doesn’t stop and Malcolm can’t stop him, and his father pulls them both into the dark.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Time Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>He can’t breathe.</p><p>His father’s hands lock about his chest, dragging him backwards and Malcolm tries to kick, to prise that strong grip off him - but he <em>can’t.</em> He’s useless, faint from shock and pain, his father wrestling him backwards as easily as he did when he was a child. “Let me go,” he gasps, “oh god, let me go, please - please <em>stop, get the fuck off me, stop!</em>”</p><p>“Son, I’m going to need you to quieten down now,” grits out Martin, “that’s it,” - because he’s sliding one arm up to rest across Malcolm’s throat, pressing down just enough to crush his cries. “There we go…Just around here…”</p><p>The ceiling reels past dizzily above him then he’s being lowered to the floor in a dark corner. Martin’s hand is instantly clamped on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place, his other hand easily squashing Malcolm’s struggles by gripping his bound hands. “Deep breaths, son,” he says soothingly, as if he isn’t the reason why Malcolm’s currently on the verge of passing out. “Try to control your breathing.”</p><p>As soon as he can drag enough air into his lungs to get a word out, he’s trying again. “Please, we have to go back… <em>please!</em> Or leave me and I’ll go back, just let me go -”</p><p>Martin looks at him with gentle concern, and Malcolm can tell he’s not engaging with a single word he’s saying; impossibly calm when Gil’s life is in immediate danger. <em>Think - he needs to </em><em><span class="u">think</span></em><em> -</em> what’s the point of his brain, his profiling skills, anything he’s learned, if it doesn’t count this<em> one </em>time and make the man before him <em>listen</em>?</p><p>“Dad,” he says. He clutches his father’s shirt with his hands, trying to pour all his urgency into his grip and gaze as he stares at him. “If we don’t go back, right now… you will never see me again. I<em> swear</em> it. If I survive tonight, there’ll be no visits, no phone time, no consulting on cases - nothing.”</p><p>“Oh my boy… of <em>course</em> you’ll survive this,” says Martin sympathetically, patting his hand and Malcolm wants to scream.</p><p>“That’s not - <em>listen to me!!</em> We will have no relationship, do you understand? This will be <em>over</em>.”</p><p>“You say that now, but you always come back.”</p><p>“Not this time,” he says, putting every ounce of feeling he can into his words. “Look at me. I mean it. Never again.”</p><p>Martin frowns, actually seeming to consider his words and Malcolm’s heart leaps in hope, his eyes already darting to the dark hallway that leads back to the canteen. <em>Come on,</em> he thinks. It’s his only card to play, but his father came back for him, so it has to count for something… <em>Please, </em><span class="u"><em>please</em></span><em> come on…</em></p><p>Martin folds his hands around Malcolm’s and sighs. “Oh, Malcolm. I <em>knew </em>you’d developed a… friendship with the Lieutenant. I knew you worked side by side, every day. But until tonight… I had no idea just how <em>close</em> the two of you had grown.” He smiles at Malcolm tenderly. “And I hate to see you so upset, I really do. Because <em>our </em>relationship… well, that means more to me than anything else in the world.”</p><p>“Then <em>help</em> me,” Malcolm pleads. “Let’s go back together<em>. </em>We can -“ but Martin’s shaking his head, talking over him before he can finish.</p><p>“You and me… we have so much we’re going to do together. But the Lieutenant wants nothing more than to drive a wedge between us. To poison you against me.”</p><p>“No - he doesn’t, that’s not -“</p><p>“You have<em> one</em> father, Malcolm. One family, and you need to realise that. If it means you hating me for a little while, then… so be it.” He looks at Malcolm ruefully, as if he’s just announced he’ll be withholding his pocket money. “Honestly, if you weren’t so... <em>distraught</em> at the idea of leaving him behind, I might actually consider it. But all this just proves how deep he’s dug his claws into you, and that… that’s why I can’t change my mind.” He brings a hand up to Malcolm’s cheek with a soft smile. “You’re just too important to me for that.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him, the full weight of those words sinking into him… and with them, the devastating knowledge that he’s failed, that there’s nothing he can say or do that will change his father’s mind. “No,” he croaks, “no…”</p><p>And then he lunges - a desperate bid for freedom - but his father catches him easily; holds him back against the wall with a grunt of displeasure. Malcolm’s struggles don’t even faze him, only serving to set off explosions of pain in his own battered body, but he keeps trying anyway, and his father’s arms only wrap tighter around him the more he twists and kicks and shoves… But there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say - <em>he’s going to have to sit here only metres away from where Gil —</em></p><p>A shriek tears through the air from the direction of the canteen, a desperate roar of pain and Malcom’s heart shudders in his chest; his panic attack returning in full force - because <em>that was Gil, Gil </em><span class="u"><em>screaming</em></span><em> — </em></p><p>He lets out a noise like a wail, choking on panic and tears and <em>despair, </em>wrenching helplessly against Martin’s hold. “You’ve killed him,” he weeps, “oh god you’ve fucking <em>killed him</em>, no no please no…” He can’t breathe; he can’t focus on his father anymore. He can’t see anything but the expression that was on Gil’s face when Malcolm <em>left him there to die, </em>at the hands of those men -</p><p>
  <em>He’s a cop.</em>
</p><p>After everything Gil’s done to protect him, his reward for coming here to <em>save him </em>is to be murdered by Shiv and those men and <em>he can’t bear it…</em> he’d rather have died, he’d rather Butcher had reached forward that extra inch and slit his throat wide open. There's another scream that tears through him like a knife, that makes Malcolm cry out too, and then his father is dragging him again, shushing him as Malcolm's lungs seize and he's robbed of his breath for a second time. His plea is barely a gasp as Martin pulls him backwards, his eyes wide and fixed desperately on the corridor beyond - receding further and further away, the cries floating out of the darkness getting fainter and fainter...</p><p>"There we go... You don't need to listen to that," soothes Martin, bringing them to a stop and sure enough, Malcolm can't hear the cries anymore. He can't hear anything over the sound of his own frantic breathing. He’s choking on sobs, hysteria building in his ribcage, and he tries to bury his face in his bound hands but he can’t even curl in on himself, not without stabs of pain that make him flinch back and keen.</p><p>Through it all, Martin holds him still and watches him dispassionately. Watches as Malcolm’s weeping builds to a crescendo and fades again from sheer exhaustion. “Ok then,” he mutters. “Luckily I swung by the pharmacy on my way here, picked up a few essentials…” Malcolm feels like he’s watching from somewhere else entirely, his whole body heaving around the weight of his grief, as for the first time he notices the bag Martin must have stashed in the little alcove he pulled them into. <em>He’s not wearing scrubs</em>... Martin’s changed into someone else’s clothes, the shirt slightly too tight, the pants slightly too large. He’s too submerged in his own despair to think about <em>why</em>, about what it might mean.</p><p>“Now let’s do something about those cuts and bruises,” Martin says, frowning. “We can’t have you collapsing on the way.”</p><p><em>The way… where? </em> </p><p>He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what happens to him now.</p><p>He feels his father’s hands pushing his shirt aside and Malcolm resists for a second…</p><p>
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p>Let his father do what he likes with him. Let his injuries rupture something vital inside of him. Let Endicott toast his obituary in tomorrow’s paper. He doesn’t care anymore; he just <em>doesn’t care</em>.</p><p>Shock sees him sagging out of his panic attack, breath wheezing in and out, all the fight knocked out of him. He sits back, a puppet with its strings cut, and pays no attention as his father hums and tuts over him, examining the worst of his injuries. “My poor boy… let’s bind those ribs up, help you breathe a little easier.” He hears fabric ripping, feels something being stuck over the bloody wound in his side where Francis’ name, or initials, or a goddamn smiley face for all he knows, is carved into his skin. He just sits there and lets it happen.</p><p><em>Every injury was for nothing. </em>Everything he did to get Butcher’s attention - futile.</p><p>It’s wrong, that he’s being bandaged and treated and <em>cared for</em> while Gil is dying.</p><p>But maybe it’s justice, that it’s his father doing the caring.</p><p>He doesn’t notice when his father finishes, when he’s sitting back on his haunches with that calculating look in his eyes. “Alright then,” says Martin briskly. “I wish you could rest up a little longer Malcolm, but I’m afraid time is a luxury we don’t have.”</p><p>Malcolm blinks heavily. He drags his eyes up from the floor and with what feels like a supreme effort, pushes the words out of his mouth. “Why… why d’you come back?”</p><p>Martin blinks at him, apparently too surprised to even feign indignation. “Of course I was going to come back for you! Surely you knew that?” Malcolm just looks into those clever eyes from his pain-filled haze, and says nothing. “I came as fast I could. I had to wait, until the odds were more in our favour. No point all of us dying in a desperate last stand, was there?”</p><p>“You have the gun,” says Malcolm heavily.</p><p>“With a finite number of bullets, Malcolm, you don’t need me to tell you that.”</p><p>“Enough to get Gil out,” he says, and part of him is amazed by how steady his voice is, as if he’s already accepted that Gil is gone. But he hasn’t, of course he hasn’t. The idea is so big it’s closed him down, knocked him numb. He isn’t feeling <em>anything </em>any more.</p><p>It’s another kindness he doesn’t deserve.</p><p>“My boy… are you still with me?” Martin’s hand pats his cheek, frowning at him. Malcolm blinks at him, feeling like he’s watching the other man from underwater, from outer-space.</p><p>“I’m so…<em> stupid,</em>” he whispers. “I was so worried… about Endicott. The prisoners… the guards. I convinced Gil… to take you out of that cell… and he listened… and he’s dead because of it. The biggest threat… is <em>you</em>. It’s <em>always…</em> you.”</p><p>“Up,” says Martin, clearly deciding he’s had enough of this conversation, and he pulls Malcolm to his feet. Martin still hasn’t untied his hands, Malcolm notices distantly - something he should probably be more concerned about. He grips Malcolm’s shoulder and steers him along; he doesn’t know where, he doesn’t know why. He’s tugged down corridor after corridor, a part of the building he’s never seen before. Once or twice Martin ducks and pulls him against a wall, holding him there as he waits for a set of footsteps to die away or to make sure the source of distant shouts aren’t coming their way. Malcolm lets himself be pushed and pulled. The physical pain is still there but it’s all distant somehow, winking at him through frosted glass. His reactions feel dulled, his legs stumbling beneath him, but his father’s hands keep him upright and eventually they reach a door that to Malcolm looks like every other door they’ve passed, but that makes Martin chuckle in satisfaction.</p><p>“Here we are,” he breathes in satisfaction, but he doesn’t open it. Instead he steps back into a recess tucked just around the corner, pulling them both down to the floor.</p><p>And there’s a crackle - the world around them strobes and flickers - then the overhead lights come back on, bleaching the whole corridor a too-bright white. Martin adjusts his grip on the gun in his hand and smiles a smile that, even from his stupor, sends shivers down Malcolm’s spine.</p><p>“Well, would you look at that,” breathes Martin. “Perfect timing.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. The Cop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>"Oh... and just so you know? He’s a cop."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s eyes, glittering with malicious triumph.</p><p>Malcolm’s eyes as he’s dragged away, bright with terror and anguish.</p><p>Shiv takes a step closer, a cold smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Other men step out of the shadows, looking at Gil with a new, hungry interest. His heart is pounding, his head is pulsing, with fury and fear like nothing he’s ever felt before.</p><p>They’re going to rip him to pieces.</p><p>The cloth is torn out of his mouth as Shiv crouches down in front of him, eyes crawling over him greedily. “That true - you police, Gil? You been holding out on us?”</p><p>“You need to let me go, right now,” he says as bravely as he can manage. The Tattooed man comes to crouch down beside him, eyeing him speculatively.</p><p>“It’s a simple yes or no question.”</p><p>“You hate Martin Whitly? You want him to suffer? Then <em>let me go</em>,” Gil bites out. “Are you really gonna let him walk out of here with everything he wants?” <em>Martin won’t kill Malcolm, </em>he tells himself<em>.</em> It’s enough to take the edge off the screech of panic flooding through him, but not enough to blunt it entirely. “Let me go and I can stop him. I know he did something to piss you off-"</p><p>“You know, there’s not many people I'd like to see suffer more than that narcissistic asshole,” admits Shiv. “But <em>a cop</em>? A cop would be one of them. So unless he’s lying… I don’t think I’ll be taking you up on your offer.”</p><p>Hands worm into his pockets and Gil can do nothing to resist - as Tats pulls out a handful of loose change, his wallet… and his police badge. He holds it up, glinting, in the dim light.</p><p>“Would you look at that,” he murmurs, giving Gil a grin that floods his guts with ice. “For once, Dr Whitly was telling the truth.” There’s a murmur of voices from the watching men, a little thrill of anticipation and hostility that sends the hairs on the back of Gil’s neck standing up.</p><p>“You made a deal,” he tries, “a deal that depends on you keeping your hostages <em>alive</em>. You’ve just lost one of them. You don’t want to give up on everything you were promised.”</p><p>Shiv reaches out and takes the badge, turning it over and over in his fingers thoughtfully. “The detective still ringing?” he calls out.</p><p>“Every fucking minute,” says a voice.</p><p>“Put me on the phone,” Gil says, “let me talk to him - I’m your best shot at getting you what-"</p><p>A punch snaps his head to the side, makes the sickening pain in his skull momentarily swallow him whole again.</p><p>“People talk. Pigs squeal,” says Tats viciously, and then the gag is being shoved roughly back into his mouth. He's dragged across the floor again, unable to raise a hand against them as they pull him round the corner and shove him face down onto the floor.</p><p>“Stay,” spits a voice, and Gil feels the floor vibrating under his cheek, rattling with the tread of heavy boots filing into the kitchen after him.</p><p>“Let’s fuck him up,” says another voice, one Gil doesn’t recognise. There’s a mutter of approval, and then a boot is driving into his stomach, another stamping down viciously on his shin. Someone grabs his collar and Gil’s barely had time to try and curl up, to pull against those grasping hands, before he hears a voice barking something and he’s suddenly dropped again, left to reel from the brief bout of pain. Shiv is speaking, he realises; saying words he can’t make out.</p><p>Muttering, and then laughter. There’s a familiar <em>clicking</em> noise he can’t place from somewhere above him.</p><p>“Give it a few minutes,” says someone.</p><p>He manages to crane his neck round and catch a glimpse of the guard, Wendell, lying nearby on the floor in front of the industrial-sized ovens and dishwashers. Gil prays the man stays unconscious. The prisoners will probably leave him alone as long as he does. <em>At least Bright got out, </em>he thinks, clinging to the thought, the only comfort he has. He tries to lift his head again, to see what’s happening above him and a hand roughly slams him back down again. Gil lies there, breathing hard with his cheek pressed against the floor, and hears a sudden vibrating sound - the phone ringing.</p><p><em>There’s nothing JT will be able to promise them that will get him out of this -</em> he knows that already. He can’t fight, he can’t run. He’s sweating from pain and fear and the parts of his brain that are still firing are spiralling in anxiety… but despite it all, he’d rather be here than where he was ten minutes ago. <em>He’d rather it was him, than the kid…</em></p><p>Nothing could be worse than the agony of seeing Malcolm being systematically <em>tortured</em> and not being able to lift a finger to help him. Stewing in his own panic and helplessness, forced to watch as Butcher had stepped forward to slit the kid’s throat like he was some animal sacrifice… Gil had thought his heart was going to give out right there and then; thought he was going to have to <em>watch</em> while the kid bled to death in front of him. When he’d heard the gunshot and seen the Surgeon, he’d actually felt relief. A rush of gratitude so strong it had left him limp and light-headed; in that moment, he’d looked at Martin Whitly and simply felt thankful that someone had been able to stop the unthinkable from happening, even if that someone was the worst man Gil knows.</p><p><em>At least now, the kid will come out of this alive.</em> Martin must have him holed up somewhere safely. It’ll be hell on Bright, being stuck with his father til this is over, but it’s better than him being <em>here -</em></p><p>Something niggles at the back of his mind. <em>S</em><em>omething Martin said? Something he saw?</em> There’s a rattling anxiety in his chest quite separate from what’s happening to him here - <em>something about the kid…</em></p><p>The ringing stops. “Detective,” purrs Shiv. “We were just talking about you.”</p><p>“I want to speak the hostages,” JT snaps, “before we say a damn word about your demands or about anything else.”</p><p>“You want a word with your <em>colleague</em> Gil?” asks Shiv. “He’s not having a very good time. I’ve been trying my best but some of the boys in here… they have a real<em> thing</em> about cops.”</p><p>Silence. Gil doesn’t need to be able to see Shiv’s face to know the man is smiling.</p><p>“Put him on the phone,” demands JT finally.</p><p>“What do I get, for keeping him alive?” continues Shiv, ignoring the question. “Seems to me like this is double or nothing kinda situation. You should be giving me <em>twice</em> what I asked for, if it means you get one of your own back… right?”</p><p>When JT answers, he sounds as frayed as Gil’s ever heard him. “You know it doesn’t work like that. I’ve spoken to the Dean - I have written confirmation. She’s agreed to -”</p><p>“What if I get Gil to ask himself, real nicely?” suggests Shiv. “He higher up the food chain than you? If he gives you an order, you gotta follow it?”</p><p>Someone hoots in laughter; a foot nudges Gil on the floor. “You the boss, pig? Or are you just a grunt?” A shadow falls over him; Shiv is suddenly kneeling by his head, holding the phone out in front of him... and if Gil needed any confirmation that the man's more interested in power than any kind of goddamn <em>deal</em>, here it is.</p><p>“Go on, Gil. Tell the detective what he has to do.”</p><p>Gil glares at him. Even if he <em>could</em> speak, he wouldn’t, but his heart nonetheless performs a strange contraction at the idea of his team hearing him like this. A foot stamps down on the small of his back and he shouts in pain. The cry is mangled by the gag, but not enough for JT to be able to miss it. “You’re gonna have to speak up for your buddy there,” says someone else, and then a kick to his ribs forces another grunt out of him.</p><p>JT is saying something - he sounds furious, but Gil can’t make out the words over his own harsh breathing, fighting to manage the pain. Shiv smirks down at him. “No? Nothing else to add?” Gil could choke on his own fury, but he stays as silent as he can while JT’s voice floats above him, mingling with the laughter of the inmates.</p><p>“You know what, Detective? I’m gonna call you back in ten minutes,” says Shiv decisively, “and Gil here’s gonna ask you to rethink your position. He’s gonna <em>beg</em> you. He’s gonna scream ‘pretty please’. So I’d have another think about what’s possible, and what’s not possible, before we speak again. Remember who the hell is in charge here.”</p><p>The line goes dead and Gil wrenches at the cuffs pinning his hands behind his back for the thousandth time, kicks out uselessly with his bound feet. <em>He won’t beg,</em> he vows, whatever the hell they do to him. But the men aren’t <em>doing</em> anything… they’re standing, watching something beyond his eye-line, something Gil can’t see from his prone position.</p><p>“One more minute,” says Tats.</p><p>“Who’s this then?”</p><p>An object drops to the floor beside his face and Gil flinches - but it’s just the dead skin of his wallet, emptied of everything that was in it. Shiv leans down into his eye-line again, waving something. It takes Gil a minute to focus on it.</p><p>Jackie. His photo of Jackie he carries.</p><p>“Quite a looker,” Shiv says. “I might hold onto this. For a lonely night.” He shows the photo to the others - passes it round, and Gil can’t hear the lewd comments and laughter above him over the dizzying swell of <em>rage </em>that takes him over. He swears into the gag, spitting curses…but a moment later and his anger has morphed into a rush of fear. <em>He doesn’t have another copy. </em>It’s one of his favourite pictures of her and the idea of it being lost <em>here</em>, kept or destroyed by one of these men makes him want to weep. <em>Don’t touch it</em>, he snarls<em> - </em>but of course even if the words came out, the men wouldn’t listen -</p><p>“Alright. Roll him over,” says Shiv, standing up decisively.</p><p>Hands turn him so that he’s facing upwards and Gil blinks rapidly, trying to decipher the shadows around him. Steel units surround him on all sides, and the shadows of men with sharp, eager eyes. Shiv is standing by one of the units, his face up-lit by orange flame, illuminating him in the darkness like a figure from some old religious painting.</p><p>He can smell something burning, Gil realises. It’s a bitter, acrid smell, but he has no idea what it is.</p><p>Tats sits down on his legs as someone else plants their hands on his shoulders and pins them against the floor. Another guy - blonde, probably still in his twenties, with a dramatic scar spider-webbing his forehead - kneels beside Gil’s head, his eyes dancing with excitement. “You ready, old man?”</p><p>“Fuck you,” says Gil furiously, and it comes out a garble of sounds that make the kid grin wider. He has to hold on to the anger, because there’s only terror there to replace it, and he still has <em>no idea</em> what these men are planning to do to him. The kid’s eyes look up…</p><p>To where Shiv is wrapping his hand in a tea towel like the one he’s already shoved in Gil’s mouth. “Hold him still.” He grips something gingerly… then he turns, holding it up and Gil’s heart drops. He starts struggling more fiercely than ever, writhing and bucking in panic…</p><p>“Now then,” murmurs Shiv, eyes narrowed in concentration as he kneels down and looks Gil right in the eye. “Where <em>do</em> you brand a pig?”</p><p>In his hand, Gil’s police badge <em>glows</em>, a flaming shield hovering in the darkness, the leather crackling around it. He can feel the heat it’s giving off already, hot sparks spitting off the burning leather. Hands tug at Gil’s shirt, pushing it up to expose his stomach. Someone’s else’s hands grab his pants and yank them down, exposing his hip; twisting him so his flank is exposed.</p><p>“Take that out of his mouth,” says Shiv. “I wanna hear him squeal”.</p><p>The gag comes loose. Gil gasps out “no, god no, don’t -” but none of them hear it; they're spellbound, and so is he, watching it with them. All of their eyes are fixed on the floating, white-hot shield; all of their faces lit dimly by its radiance. Shiv presses the blazing badge down and all of them hear the harsh <em>sizzle</em> of flesh…</p><p><em>His </em>flesh…</p><p>And then the pain hits him.</p><p>All he can think about is escaping it. His whole body writhes, feet drumming in a frenzy against the floor, his torso twisting desperately against the hands pinning him in place. The metal is <em>eating </em>through his side, blistering and burning. He screams and screams and when the badge is finally lifted away he keeps on screaming, because his every nerve ending is still shrieking white hot agony at him, of a kind he’s never known —</p><p>“He moved,” says a voice from somewhere above him, sounding annoyed. “You can’t see the shield so good.”</p><p>He’s barely conscious of being turned this time - only when an arm brushes against the livid patch on his side, and then he thinks he screams again. Someone shoves the gag back into his mouth with a noise of impatience and his face is pressed back against the cold floor. His cheeks feel wet with tears.</p><p>More hands on him, lifting his arms, yanking down the collar of his shirt to expose his back and then the metal’s searing into him again, pressing into the skin of his shoulder like a brand, for so long he thinks he’s going to pass out.</p><p>“Shit,” says someone, sounding faintly impressed. It’s lifted off him and he goes limp, shuddering as the material of his shirt is released and brushes back over the wound. Sweat is running into his eyes but he’s shivering too, violently, the cuff-chain rattling between his hands. The pain is louder than everything else, making the world fade around him, dialling everything down to muted blurs…</p><p>A hand grabs his jaw, forcing his head up. A face swims in front of him, kaleidoscoped by tears.</p><p><em>Shiv… </em>blowing on the cooling badge. Gil has a sudden memory of the day he got it, the rush of pride he’d felt. The decades it’s spent since being worn smooth in his pocket. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at it again... without picturing this man’s face. “Shall we make it three? Or shall we move on to something else?” He smiles at Gil softly. “I have some ideas… but maybe you want to beg your cop friend for your life, first.”</p><p>Gil musters up enough strength to give Shiv a look of pure loathing… and gets a coolly-raised eyebrow in response. “Maybe not,” murmurs Shiv. “But that’s ok. You’re not getting out of here alive anyway.” His hand comes to rest gently the exposed band of skin where his shirt has come loose, stroking it softly, and Gil’s breath hitches. “How about we get that pretty wife of yours on the phone? Give you a chance to say goodbye… or maybe tell her how much more fun you’re having in here, with us.”</p><p>“I’ve got something he can give to his wife,” says a voice. A hand tugs his belt and even through the pain and grogginess a wave of pure adrenaline sweeps through him, a desperate fight or flight response. Gil lashes out with his legs and gets only a burst of laughter in response. A hand grabs his hair, cracking his head back against the lino and he almost blacks out right then and there - but he clings on as best he can<em> because if he passes out, they won’t stop, they still won’t stop - </em></p><p>“You know,” says Shiv, “normally I prefer to watch - but for you….” He meets Gil’s panicked eyes with a delicate shrug<em>.</em> His fingers move to work at Gil’s belt buckle.</p><p><em>No,</em> he says, and though the words come out scrambled, their meaning doesn’t - <em>don’t fucking touch me, don’t —</em></p><p>A hand grabs him through his pants and Gil<em> roars - </em>rocks his weight back onto his shoulders, ignores the pain of the burn that smashes into him afresh, and jackknifes as best he can. His feet hit someone with a thud and a yell of pain… <em>but there’s too many of them</em>; as one falls back, another reaches forward; hands everywhere, bodies <em>everywhere. </em>Shiv tugs his belt free as someone else’s fingers fist in his hair <em>-</em> he’s on the cusp of passing out completely, hyperventilating from panic and pain and the fact he can barely fucking <em>breathe</em> around the gag -</p><p>Bright light stabs into his eyes and he moans, blinded as well as silenced and helpless and breathless - but then the hands stop. Gil whimpers, unable to understand what’s going on, if this is a reprieve or some new escalation. Voices all start talking at once; angry, scared, confused - and with the lights it’s all too much. He blacks out for a second, revived by the chaos of boots trampling around him, rushing out of the room. He blinks his eyes open dazedly to see Shiv, eyes cold and calculating as ever, standing over him. Shiv spares him one brief glance, a look of mild disappointment on his face… before he’s heading out of the room too, joining the stampede of fleeing prisoners.</p><p>He’s alone.</p><p>He lies there, shaking on the floor, as disorientated in the sudden space and silence, the fluorescent white glow, as he was in the dark with all those men surrounding him. He rolls weakly onto his side, trying to understand what’s happened. Where the men have gone, if they’re coming back.</p><p><em>JT, </em>his brain finally supplies<em>. NYPD. SWAT.</em> The lockdown must have been breached. His people are inside the building.</p><p>He could start sobbing at the realisation, but instead he tries to lift his head up, to focus his blurry vision on the entrance to the kitchen… because he can hear…</p><p>
  <em>Footsteps.</em>
</p><p>Coming towards him, echoing through the now-silent canteen. Gil’s heart is racing; his entire frame coiled as tense as a spring, <em>because he has to be ready to fight</em>… if one of the men is coming back to finish what they started… </p><p>Closer… <em>closer…</em></p><p>It’s not JT. It’s not SWAT either. A Claremont guard edges tentatively into the room, taking in Gil with a wide-eyed expression. “Hey,” he whispers shakily.</p><p>Even if it’s not his own people, it's <em>help</em>. Gil feels dizzy with relief. The man’s eyes dart around the room nervously, taking in the unconscious guard in the corner, seeming to relax a fraction when he sees there’s no one else but them there. He comes over to Gil and gently tugs the gag out of his mouth and Gil has to fight every instinct not to pull back from the touch. “Arroyo? G-Gil Arroyo?” His voice is trembling. Gil nods, swallowing down bile. He doesn’t want to puke on his rescuer.</p><p>“Un-cuff me,” he whispers hoarsely, because if he has to stay for one more minute with his hands trapped behind his back, unable to defend himself, he thinks he’s going to lose it completely. The man stands up and then pauses, looking around as if lost. He's clearly terrified.</p><p>“Wendell,” Gil manages. “Should have… keys.” The man nods, but he still doesn’t move. He’s worrying his hands in front of him and Gil thinks the guy must have frozen from fear, or shock at whatever he’s seen in the last few hours. “S’ok,” he tries again. “Just… un-cuff me and… I can do the rest.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” says the guard. He’s biting his lip. His shaking hand slides into his pocket and takes out his phone. He holds up it in front of Gil, where he’s curled up on his side, but he doesn't call for help.</p><p>Instead, there’s the <em>click </em>of the camera.</p><p>Gil stares up at him as the camera sounds again; image after image of him lying helplessly on the floor. Confusion - indignation - but most of all, a cold, paralysing fear - all creep back over him.</p><p>“What…” he whispers, but he already knows.</p><p>“For Mr Endicott. I need to prove… I did it,” the man says. “It’s just… it’s a lot of money, Mr Arroyo. You have no idea… the amount of money.” He steps closer and Gil shakes his head in refusal, because his team are <em>just outside</em>; he can’t have made it this far, only to die at the hands of some turncoat guard who’s found him by goddamn <em>luck</em>.</p><p>“No,” he mutters, “don’t… don’t do this…”</p><p>“I’ll make it quick,” he says. “I’m sorry.” There’s the far-off sounds of gunfire, shouting and yelling, and Gil sucks in a breath. His voice is wrecked from screaming, but he has <em>one shot</em> —</p><p>“<em>Help! Help me, somebody - </em>“</p><p>- the man lunges.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Close Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The guard throws himself on top of Gil, slapping a hand over his mouth, cutting off his cry. “Don’t fight me,” he pants, as Gil twists desperately underneath him, “don’t fight… this can be over quick -“</p><p>Gil bites down savagely and the man jerks his hand away with a curse. He spits blood and heaves in a breath to shout again, but his voice is choked by the man’s weight on his chest. “<em>Help</em>,” he rasps out, “help m-"</p><p>A hand fists around the gag, still knotted loosely around his neck, and <em>twists - </em>cutting off his air as the cloth yanks tight around his throat. All of the guard's weight is sprawled over Gil where he lies, grinding his burned skin against the floor, whiting out his brain in a vicious blaze of agony. The instinct to panic is overwhelming but he forces himself to go limp, to let the pain wash over him and lie as still as he can as he chokes, feeling the man’s weight shift as he leans in closer….</p><p>He feels breath on his face and slams his head upward, throttling himself further in the process - but the man falls back in surprise with a pained shout, and for a blessed moment his grip relaxes. Gil drags in a breath as he hears the man scrambling to right himself. “You fucking asshole,” he hisses - like he’s <em>affronted</em> Gil isn’t submitting meekly - and then the gag is choking him again. The guard settles on top of him; he's looking down at him speculatively, checking that he’s not getting a scrap of air... <em>which he isn’t.</em> His chest feels like it's going to explode from the pressure and there's not a thing he can do to fight back. The man's face swims above him, his eyes darting nervously around the room… <em>and</em> o<em>f all the assassins in the world, he’s going to be killed by this goddamn </em><span class="u"><em>coward</em></span><em>, </em>thinks Gil furiously - in a fair fight he wouldn’t stand a chance - if Gil had <em>one</em> arm free, the guy would be running —</p><p>But all he can do is lie there, the noose around his throat slowly suffocating him. The guard peers down at him anxiously, waiting for him to pass out. <em>Then he’ll take the ‘After’ photo, </em>thinks Gil in dizzy horror, <em>a trophy for Endicott - his trussed up, bloody corpse —</em></p><p>There’s a tunnelling in his vision, a thunder rising in his skull — a cacophony that grows louder and louder and-</p><p><em>“No!”</em> the guard cries in panic, “no -“</p><p>Shouting and stamping, the floor shaking -</p><p>The weight on his chest lifts - the cloth around his neck is dragged up over his head. Gil rolls over immediately, curling in on himself as he wheezes in air -</p><p>“No, no please — wait -"</p><p>“Take him outside -"</p><p>“Shit, it’s him!”</p><p>“Someone call medical!”</p><p>“Lieutenant Arroyo, sir…Sir, can you hear me?”</p><p>Someone grabs his shoulder -</p><p>Gil pulls away, overwhelmed by the press of bodies, the panic-inducing sensation of yet <em>more</em> hands on him, when he can do nothing to protect himself -</p><p>“Sir -"</p><p>“<em>Gil!!</em> Holy shit-"</p><p>More footsteps, running towards him. “Give him some room, for christ’s sake! Fall back - fall back, I got this..."</p><p>A familiar silhouette crouches down beside him. “Gil… hey man, you with me? ...Gil?”</p><p>“… JT?” he croaks.</p><p>“Yeah. I’m gonna un-cuff you, ok? Just hold still for a second…”</p><p>He hears the tiny <em>click</em>, feels hands on his wrists. He tries to pull away instinctively and <em>can</em>, can finally bring his arms around in front of him, shaking and clumsy. He tries to push himself upright and would fall flat on his face immediately but for JT catching him. A moment later a gentle hand is curling round his bicep. It's lifting him before he can co-ordinate himself into pushing it away, and releases him again almost immediately - leaving him sat upright against one of the kitchen units. His chest is heaving, his vision reeling, his shoulder and side pulsing. The room swirls about him sickeningly… but he can finally<em> see</em> the space around him, rather than glimpsing it in snatches from the floor…</p><p>It’s empty, but for JT at his side. A SWAT officer is manning the door, his back respectfully turned to give the illusion of privacy. Wendell has gone. The man who just tried to choke him has gone.</p><p>For the first time in God knows how many hours, he’s not surrounded by men who want to kill him.</p><p>JT is somehow at his feet, untying his ankles. “Gil, man - talk to me. We got medics coming, we can get you a stretcher out of here—"</p><p>“I can… walk,” he mumbles, “I can… I gotta…” He lifts a shaking hand to his temple, and it comes back tacky with blood. He looks at it in detached interest, then leans over and promptly throws up. It doesn’t last for long: given he skipped dinner to come find Malcolm, there’s very little to get out.</p><p>He almost slips over again into mess he’s just created on the floor, but JT pulls him upright, crouching in front of him, one hand holding him steady. “How ‘bout you take a minute, boss?” suggests JT softly. “You’re good, we got this place filled with officers. We can take our time here.”</p><p>Gil closes his eyes. He feels like he could pass out right now and not wake up for the next three weeks, or - more alarmingly - burst into tears and start sobbing into the man’s shoulder. Not that JT would judge him. The man is waiting beside him with infinite patience, nothing but concern and relief in his eyes as Gil tries to gather himself. <em>Calm.</em> He needs to be calm, like JT, like the officer at the door. But the idea his heartbeat will ever return to anything like normal feels impossible; his body is wired into fight or flight mode, his brain stuck and stuttering on high alert... </p><p>There’s the crackle of a radio. “JT, you there??” It’s Dani’s voice, urgent, panic threading through it.</p><p>“Dani - I’m with Gil. We got him.” There’s a harsh breath over the line, and it’s a moment before she speaks again.</p><p>“Is he ok??”</p><p>“He’s banged up some, but he’s gonna be fine,” says JT firmly, one eye on him. “No sign of Bright though.” Dani curses.</p><p>“No sign here either, but we’ve not swept the west side yet.”</p><p>“Let me know when you’ve got him.”</p><p>“Copy that.” The transmission goes dead, and finally Gil feels sharp enough to break out of the haze he’s in - <em>shock, </em>supplies his brain helpfully, <em>you’re in shock -</em></p><p>“Malcolm —"</p><p>“We’ll find him,” says JT soothingly. “Barely done half the building yet.”</p><p>“No, you don’t understand - he’s with Martin,” says Gil. “Martin’s got him - you gotta be careful - he’s armed, and Malcolm…” His head is filled again with the sound of the kid’s <em>screaming</em>; the sight of him hanging there, bloody and terrified and trying so damn hard not to show it. He feels dizzy. "Malcolm’s hurt - they hurt him -"</p><p>“We’re on it, boss,” promises JT. “We’ve got medical on standby.” His hand tightens on Gil's arm. "<em>Gil. </em>He's gonna be ok."</p><p><em>Of course</em> they’re on it. He knows his team, the officers tearing through this building right now; they’ll be turning over every stone to find Bright. He <em>knows </em>that - he’s just not gonna be able to take a full breath until he sees the kid with his own eyes.</p><p>“Speaking of medical…” murmurs JT.</p><p>“Not til I’ve seen Bright,” says Gil. “We gotta… find him, I gotta -“ but JT’s hand lands on his shoulder again before he can begin to attempt to make it to his feet.</p><p>“Boss, <em>please.</em> They ain’t gonna find him any faster with you hovering over them, alright? And you should probably be in an ambulance going direct to the hospital right now.” He scans over him, and Gil’s finally with it enough to see the fear in his eyes. He remembers the phone calls; how JT’s voice had sounded on the other end of the line; the tremor in Dani’s voice when she asked <em>is he ok?? "</em>Please, just… let me get a paramedic in here?”</p><p>He takes a deep breath. <em>He needs to calm down.</em> He needs to think of JT, and Dani, get his own head straight. “Ok. Ok. But no ambulance. We can go find a medic… in a minute,” he adds, because he’s honestly not sure he can stand just yet.</p><p>“I can just radio someone to come in here." Gil shakes his head. </p><p>"No. Not... in here."</p><p>"You sure? We can -"</p><p>“Pretty damn sure,” he grits out. He sees JT open his mouth to argue and cuts him off. “I wanna get off the goddamn floor, ok?” He’s had enough of people looming over him to last a lifetime.</p><p>JT huffs out a breath and nods. “Deal.” He sits cautiously at Gil’s side, leaning back against the unit too. “Not gonna lie… you had us scared, boss. Is there anything immediate I should be worried about? Bright said you had a concussion…”</p><p>Gil just grunts, because he’s starting to think that was an understatement, and it still doesn’t change the fact he’s not going anywhere til they've found Malcolm. “Where’s the guy who…” he gestures vaguely towards his own throat.</p><p>“On his way to booking,” mutters JT. “Didn’t think we’d be arresting the goddamn <em>guards</em> when we got in here."</p><p>“He works for Endicott. With enough pressure, we can get him to flip. Don’t leave him alone. I want eyes we trust on him round the clock.” JT nods and picks up the radio again, relaying the message back to whoever’s guarding him. He lets his attention drift from JT’s voice, his eyes sweeping over the floor. His empty wallet lies a few feet away, like the skin of some small, flayed creature. He doesn’t want it back. His badge, his wallet... his belt. He takes a steadying breath. All of those can be taken in by evidence, but…</p><p>He casts his eyes around, over the bootprints and the bloodstains and the discarded cuffs and scraps of cloth, almost afraid to look too hard and confirm what he’s sure is true… <em>because it must be gone. </em>He knows that logically, but even though his skin is <em>crawling</em> to be out of this place, he can't let himself leave until he knows for sure...</p><p><em>... There.</em> Barely visible, peeking out from below the corner of a unit... there's the faintest scrap of something. He disengages from JT’s supporting arm and pulls himself closer.</p><p>“Boss? What is it?” He feels JT shift behind him but doesn’t answer. He braces himself until he can reach out with one trembling hand and pull the little scrap of paper from its hiding place…</p><p>And there she is. <em>Thank you. </em><span class="u"><em>Thank</em></span> <span class="u"><em>you</em></span><em>, </em>he thinks fervently. The photo is creased but all in one piece. Her smile is just as brilliant, her warm gaze beaming out at him just the same. <em>Jackie.</em></p><p>After a moment - ignoring JT hovering behind him - he tucks the photo safely into his pocket.</p><p>“Ok,” he manages, and if his voice comes out rougher than he’d like, JT mercifully doesn’t comment. “Help me up. Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He barely recognises the canteen with the lights on. From that cavernous, nightmarish theatre of the past few hours, it’s been transformed by the lights into something that reminds him of his high school lunch room… if you ignore all the blood. Butcher’s body has been taken away, but the bloodstain remains, and there’s more blood spattered across the floor, from him and Malcolm and God knows who else. Part of him wants nothing more than to leave this room and never come back; the other part superstitiously wants to stay, because it’s the last place he saw Bright.</p><p>JT helps him into a chair and reappears seconds later with a paramedic who looks barely old enough to be out of high school herself - currently examining the side of his head with a deeply troubled expression. She’s insisted on an IV and whatever’s pumping into him is doing something to clear his head, to numb the worst of the pain, but he still feels like he’s been run over with a truck. A couple of SWAT officers have lingered - Gil’s not entirely sure, but he thinks they might have taken it upon themselves to act as his own personal guard. JT hasn’t left his side, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a thunderous expression on his face that hasn’t cooled ever since he caught a glimpse of the crest-shaped burn melted into his shoulder.</p><p>“Lieutenant Arroyo... you really should be going to the hospital. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a skull fracture —"</p><p>“Just patch it up as good as you can for now,” says Gil, ignoring her huff of frustration. Ten more minutes have passed, and still no word of Bright. <em>It’s a huge building,</em> he reminds himself. <em>Martin would pick a good hiding place for them</em>. It does nothing to quell the nausea churning in his gut.</p><p>“And the second degree burns?” she says acidly. “You want me to just ‘patch those up’ as well?”</p><p>“That’d be great,” he says, and he could swear she deliberately presses even harder with whatever she’s using to temporarily glue his skull back together. “<em>Ow!!</em>”</p><p>“You know if the roles were reversed, you’d be ordering me onto a stretcher?” points out JT.</p><p>“Good thing I’m the boss, then.” Because there’s no way he’s being <em>carried</em> out of this godforsaken prison if he can possibly help it, or leaving at all until they’ve found Malcolm. It’s bad enough not taking part in the search, just <em>sitting </em>here… and he knows JT feels the same way. “You don’t have to sit around here waiting with me,” he offers. “If you want to go find Dani, or take a couple of officers -"</p><p>“Dani doesn’t currently have a bounty on her head,” says JT. “You and Bright aren’t getting into a goddamn ambulance without one of us there, til we know how deep this thing goes.” Gil’s retort dies in his throat.<em> Someone finishing the job, slipping a little too much of something into Malcolm’s IV while he’s knocked out and vulnerable…</em> the idea hadn’t even occurred to him and his heart clenches at the thought. JT must see the look on his face because he clears his throat and quickly qualifies, “just being cautious, boss. That’s not gonna happen.”</p><p>“Check in with Powell,” is his only answer, even though he knows she’d radio them the second she hears anything.</p><p>Dani’s voice is taut with frustration. “We’ve checked maybe eighty per cent of the building. Found three more guards, one in critical condition, but still no sign of Bright. Or the Surgeon,” she adds. “We’re having to secure the prisoners as we go - transfer them back into the areas we’ve already cleared. It’s slowing us down.”</p><p><em>Eighty per cent.</em> Malcolm’s a one per cent kind of kid though; a nought point nought one per cent-er, if he’s being honest. The fact they’ve not found him yet doesn’t have to mean anything.</p><p><em>But it does</em>, nags the voice in his head, growing louder and clearer with every minute that passes, with every drip of the IV in his arm that’s finally lending some clarity to his thoughts. <em>It means </em><span class="u"><em>something</em></span><em>…</em></p><p>
  <em>It means…</em>
</p><p>In the corridor outside, a trio of cuffed prisoners are escorted along by some officers. Gil doesn’t recognise any of them from his earlier ordeal, but nonetheless the sight sends a little flare of alarm pulsing through him. <em>Gonna have to get a handle on that</em>, he thinks to himself - <em>can’t have the head of a police department</em> <em>getting twitchy every time he sees someone in prison scrubs. </em>But he can’t help his reaction; the white uniforms make them look the same as the men from before, the men that surrounded them in this very room…</p><p>His breath catches. The paramedic stops wrapping his torn-up wrist in gauze and looks at him in concern. “Lieutenant Arroyo?”</p><p><em>That’s what he’s been missing. That’s what’s been jumping up and down at the back of his mind </em><span class="u"><em>screaming</em></span><em> at him since the moment Martin left and he’s been too goddamn stupid to notice it until </em><span class="u"><em>now</em></span>…</p><p>“He wasn’t… he wasn’t wearing the uniform,” he mutters, looking to JT with wide, horrified eyes. “Martin… he’d changed out of scrubs.”</p><p>JT just looks at him in confusion. “Get Dani on the radio,” Gil gasps, stumbling to his feet, because they have to move <em>now,</em> before it’s too late. “The Surgeon’s not hidden him <em>inside</em>, he’s taking him <em>outside!</em> He’s breaking out, and he’s taking Bright with him.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy holidays everyone! 💜</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. A Narrow Escape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year guys! Hope you all had a good break 💜</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>“Get Dani on the radio,” Gil gasps, stumbling to his feet, because they have to move now, before it’s too late. “The Surgeon’s not hidden him inside, he’s taking him outside! He’s breaking out, and he’s taking Bright with him.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>***</em>
</p><p><em>If there’s a hell</em>, thinks Malcolm, from his cocoon of shock and pain, <em>he’s gone there early. </em>Bundled in his father’s arms, a hand pressed across his mouth, <em>just like before, when he was a child -</em> trapped and powerless… </p><p>When the lights had come back on (<em>so bright - he can still barely </em><span class="u"><em>see</em></span><em> they’re so bright</em>) and there’d been the industrial-sounding, automated clang of locks sliding back, he’d tried to scream. Tried calling for help as three SWAT officers silently entered the corridor, locking the door again behind them and disappearing into building - but his father had been merciless. He hadn’t been able to make a sound, and now the men have gone, Dr Whitly’s clearly decided Malcolm can’t be trusted, easing his grip just a fraction but keeping a hand slapped over his mouth all the same.</p><p><em>How long have they been sitting here, waiting?</em> It feels like it’s been hours already; an endless vigil as he hears the men and women who might be able to help him move farther and farther away into the building. But <em>still</em> his father doesn’t move, waiting for some secret sign known only to him, and all Malcolm can do is wait with him.</p><p>At first all he felt was a raw<em>, </em>suffocating panic at finding himself trapped in a recreation of his oldest nightmare. He struggled and whimpered until he was too exhausted to do so anymore, falling silent while his father gripped him tighter, or simply murmured, “ssh now,” into his ear. Now he’s slipped into a kind of haze, pleasingly distant from his body; from the horrible sensation of being wrapped in his father’s embrace. If only he could stop his <em>mind</em> from drifting too… because it won’t stop, and it keeps whispering,</p><p>
  <em>what if they got there in time? What if Dani and JT found Gil? What if he’s made it out alive?</em>
</p><p>and he can’t think like that. It’s easier not to hope, easier not to feel anything at all. Easier not to look back - to the moment he was too weak to save him. Easier not to look forward, to a future without Gil in it. That leaves him trapped in the present, then… trapped in his own personal nightmare, <em>and that’s why this is hell, </em>he thinks, <em>punishment for the damned, and what better punishment could there be for him than <span class="u">this</span>?</em></p><p>His father shifts against him and finally they’re moving, as Malcolm’s hauled to his feet and led towards the door. His father produces a set of keys, and Malcolm watches as if in a dream as the steel swings open and he feels a rush of cold air. <em>Outside… the door leads </em><span class="u"><em>outside</em></span><em>…</em></p><p>He’s been so stupid. So <em>selfish,</em> thinking he had nothing more to lose… how could he forget the threat that Martin poses to anyone he comes across? It never occurred to him his father might find a way <em>out</em> of Claremont.</p><p><em>If he escapes, how much more blood will he have on his hands</em>?</p><p>“Now then, Malcolm… this will go much faster if I can trust you not to start screaming and shouting.” Martin reaches into the bag, pulling out a plastic prescription bottle, and a bottle of water, holding one up in each hand. “I can put you out for the journey… or you can walk out of that door with me. But you need to promise to behave yourself. I’m only going to ask the one time.”</p><p>Malcolm just stares at him, numb with horror, until Martin smiles, clearly taking silence for acceptance. He slips the pills back into his pocket. “Just the water, then.” He unscrews the cap, and wraps Malcolm’s numb hands around the bottle. “You need to drink,” he says solicitously when Malcolm makes no move to lift it. “Look at you, you can barely stand. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”</p><p>Malcolm wants to spit that he’d rather pass out from dehydration that accept his father’s version of care... but to do so would probably lead to Martin pouring it down his throat anyway, while he’s too exhausted to fight him off. He drinks, his father watching approvingly, until the bottle is half-drained and the man nods in satisfaction. “Good… Come on.”</p><p>He tugs Malcolm forwards, and he stumbles deliberately as they pass out into the cold air beyond, catching himself with his bound hands on the doorframe. Martin doesn’t see the pale, bloody fingerprints he leaves behind... but he prays to god someone else will.</p><p>The night air is like a bucket of cold water, slapping him awake. The tarmac feels like ice against his bare feet. He staggers along, his father’s hand on his shoulder, trying to get his bearings. They must be round the back of the building, an exit Malcolm’s never seen before. Sodium lights send down strips of harsh white, illuminating the light drizzle raining down on them, leaving pockets of near-absolute darkness in between.</p><p>They follow the perimeter beside a high stretch of wall, not another soul in sight, and just as Malcolm’s praying the wall isn’t something Martin’s factored into his plans —</p><p>“The gate should be just… along… <em>here</em>,” murmurs Martin, and sure enough there’s a barred gate with an electronic lock. Malcolm can see the lights of the city winking at him in the distance. Martin pulls a keycard from his pocket.</p><p>“How…?” whispers Malcolm. “I don’t understand… how did you…?”</p><p>“You remember our red-headed friend? I told you I’d make him regret hurting you. I went back and paid him a little visit.” Malcolm just gapes at him. He’d almost forgotten Ginger - left cuffed to his father’s bed, back in that cell where this all began. “I knew he’d have an escape route planned. And do you know, after all that grand-standing when he was at the other end of things… it really took very little to make him talk?” Martin winks at him conspiratorially, apparently blind to the absolute horror that must be written all over Malcolm’s face. “Turns out you were right to leave him alive after all. I mean, he’s dead <em>now, </em>of course,” he chuckles, “but he really turned out to be far more useful than I could have dreamed.”</p><p>He swipes the keycard. The little light flips from red to green, and the bottom drops out of Malcolm's stomach.</p><p>His father murdered twenty-three people. <em>How many more, if Malcolm lets him get away tonight?</em></p><p>The gate swings open and Martin gestures expansively, as if offering Malcolm the world. “After you, my boy.” Malcolm’s eyes dart back behind his father, into the darkness beyond - but there’s no one there, no one to hear him if he uses up his one chance and calls for help.. They’ll be looking for them inside, not outside… if not for Endicott’s assassins, there’d be no way someone like Martin could have ever got access to a key…</p><p>Martin’s hand lands on his shoulder, pushing him, and Malcolm stumbles forwards, dragging his feet, his mind racing.<em> If he goes slow enough… if he can just keep Martin within the grounds in time for someone to figure out what’s going on… </em>A huge expanse of tarmac stretches ahead of him, wire mesh fencing surrounding it, rows of cars and vans parked in lines at the far end. They're in the staff car park, he realises; in the far distance are the moving lights of night-time traffic, the quiet hum of the city.<em> If they make it to the road, it’s over.</em> He trips over deliberately, landing on his knees with a pained gasp. Martin’s hand is yanking him up again in seconds, a flash of anger crossing his face - an anger that reflexively makes Malcolm’s stomach shrink and his hand shake but he knows he needs to do more, do <em>anything</em> to buy himself more time…</p><p>“Where do you think you’re gonna go? The world knows your face now. You won’t even make it out of the city.”</p><p>“Please. The police wouldn’t have caught me the first time if they hadn’t had help,” snaps Martin, and Malcolm wonders if its deliberate that he’s not pointed out it was <em>Malcolm’s</em> help, now he’s so invested in the idea of the two of them apparently running away together.</p><p>“So that’s your plan for me? Is that it? The two of us on the run, for the rest of our lives? You think I want <em>that?</em>” Martin’s practically <em>dragging</em> him across the tarmac now, towards the silent car park waiting ahead of them.</p><p>“Oh no, you’ve made it perfectly clear what <em>you</em> want,” sneers Martin. “And it wouldn’t just be ten years without a visit, without a <em>phone call</em> this time. Well, I’m sorry if I’m not going to walk back into that cell and never see my own son again. You backed me into a corner Malcolm, so don’t complain if you don’t like the results.” He shoves him against the side of a car and starts digging through the bag as Malcolm leans against the car door dizzily.</p><p>“So you’re… kidnapping me,” he manages. “Because… you care so much.”</p><p>“I’m the one who just got you out of that building alive,” retorts Martin, finally finding a set of car keys and shouldering the bag again. “This would all go a lot easier if you kept in mind that I might actually know what’s best for you, Malcolm.”</p><p>“What’s… best for me.<em>” </em>Malcolm would laugh, if he didn’t need all his energy just to stay upright, to stop himself from collapsing down onto the tarmac.</p><p>“I know you better than you think - better than you know yourself. You'll see. The things we're going to do are really going to open your eyes.”</p><p>Malcolm swallows. <em>He </em><em>never</em><em> wants to find out what the hell </em><span class="u"><em>that</em></span><em> means</em>. Martin’s hand lands on his shoulder again, driving him forward. He was hoping to pick a moment when there’d be better chance of someone hearing - he knows he’ll only get one shot - but he’s running out of time. He draws in a breath to scream — and stumbles instead, falling to his knees as a wave of dizziness washes over him and the car park wheels around him. He tries to shrug off Martin’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to his feet again. He needs to <em>scream</em>, or run… but his injuries have drained all his energy, and his limbs feel like lead. Like he’s moving in slow motion…</p><p>His eyes find Martin’s face, studying him in the dark, and suddenly he <em>knows. </em></p><p>“The water…” he breathes. “You… you drugged the water…”</p><p>“Easy now… let’s get you back on your feet…”</p><p>He pushes against him weakly. “What… what did you give me?!”</p><p>“Just a few muscle relaxants… you won’t even lose consciousness,” soothes Martin. “They should wear off in half an hour or so but I knew you’d try and cause a fuss, and I didn’t want you hurting yourself. Don’t fight it, Malcolm. This is just to make things easier for both of us…”</p><p>“Let him go!”</p><p>Malcolm barely has time to register the voice. He’s pulled flush against his father, legs almost collapsing under him at the sudden movement, the shiv at his throat before his eyes have had time to focus on the figure in the dark. He sees his father’s other arm reach out, the gun aimed dead ahead…</p><p>At Dani, who is standing across from them in the darkness, her own gun pointing right at them. His heart leaps. “Dani,” he gasps. His eyes scan desperately for JT, for more officers moving out of the shadows to surround them…</p><p>But the dark is empty, but for the three of them.This isn’t an ambush, there’s no SWAT team strategically positioned around the car park.<em> It’s just Dani</em>, and he’d be more terrified for her safety if he wasn’t so thoroughly consumed by the idea of his father getting loose in New York city.</p><p>“Detective Powell! What an unexpected pleasure,” purrs Martin from behind Malcolm’s ear, positioning Malcolm’s body even more firmly in front of him. Dani’s stance is perfectly steady but her face is pale in the darkness and her expression makes Malcolm’s heart twist. He's <em>never</em> seen that look in her eyes before...</p><p><em>Maybe Gil didn't make it after all,</em> whispers the voice in his mind. <em>Maybe she already found his body</em><em>. </em><em>What else would make her look like that?</em></p><p>“Let him go,” repeats Dani, her voice low with fury.</p><p>“I can see why you like her, Malcolm,” says Martin, “she’s got real fire in her belly. Let’s just hope she likes you too.… Put the gun down, Detective.”</p><p>“No,” he blurts out, “Dani, don’t -“ Martin pushes the knife a little deeper into the underside of his jaw, turning the rest of his words into a choked gurgle, and he sees Dani’s eyes widen.</p><p>“Don’t do this, Dr Whitly. I know you don’t wanna hurt him,” she says urgently. “Let him go… and we can all go back inside. Like none of this ever happened.”</p><p>“Well, you must know <em>that’s </em>not going to happen. It’s not exactly an appealing offer to a man who’s spent the last twenty years in a cell. Which makes me wonder… what <em>is</em> your plan here, Detective? I’m guessing… it’s to keep us all standing around out here, while you wait for back up to arrive.” Malcolm can <em>feel</em> Martin’s smirk at Dani’s expression. His heart sinks.</p><p>“Doesn’t matter if I have back up with me or not,” she says levelly. “I can’t let you leave.”</p><p>“Then you’re going to have to shoot. Do you know, Malcolm’s always telling me about his team? How he can <em>trust</em> you… how you all ‘have each other’s back’. I do hope he wasn’t exaggerating,” says Martin, wrestling Malcolm back into submission with pathetic ease as he attempts to break free. “He probably has full confidence that you could pull that trigger - miss him - and hit me. How confident are <em>you</em>, Miss Powell?”</p><p>Dani’s jaw clenches. Her gun stays trained on them for a few more agonising seconds, searching for an in… and then she adjusts her aim. One hand reaches for her radio…</p><p>“Touch that radio and it won’t matter how good a shot you are,” says his father smoothly. “I’ll kill him myself.”</p><p>Malcolm sees the horror in Dani’s eyes, but he doesn’t feel it himself. He’s falling far away from his own grief and shock, his fear and pain, even as the little voice inside whispers to him again. <em>Don’t tell me you’re surprised? </em>it sneers. <em>Did you really think he </em><span class="u"><em>rescued</em></span><em> you from Butcher? That he came back because he </em><span class="u"><em>loves</em></span><em> you? </em></p><p><em>Look at yourself.</em> <em> This picture tells you everything about how Martin Whitly feels about you: he’s using you as body armour.</em></p><p>“You see, if I go back to that cell, I’ll never see my boy again. I have nothing to lose here, Detective… so, please. Don’t make me do something that we’ll both regret.”</p><p>Dani’s eyes flick to Malcolm, looking for some clue there, some sign to see if the Surgeon’s bluffing, and Malcolm feels his eyes filling with tears… because he doesn’t know. <em>He doesn’t know,</em> and all he can feel is <em>shame</em>. It sweeps over him, crushing, overwhelming, as the knife presses across his throat. He wishes he was dead; he wishes he’d never been born, <em>anything</em> rather than <em>this.</em> Anything rather than being a tool for his father to manipulate - used to hurt everyone Malcolm cares about, by the person who’s supposed to love him the most. Dani’s gaze is wide and worried and he can’t bear to look at her. He closes his eyes, but even then he can feel the tears spilling out.</p><p>Martin speaks again, his voice monstrously calm. “So. You can’t let me leave, I can’t let you stop me. I won’t put down my gun, you won’t put down yours. Here’s my proposal. Take those cuffs on your belt… and handcuff yourself to that car.”</p><p>Dani lets out a harsh laugh. “Really? You think I’m gonna cuff myself, in front of a serial killer?”</p><p>“I do. You can keep your gun. That means I can’t kill you, not without risking a bullet - and you can’t chase me. Your friends will be here soon, I’m sure. Really all I’m buying is a head start. And you won’t have my son’s blood on your hands.”</p><p>“No,” whispers Malcolm. <em>She can’t, she can’t let him do that…</em> Martin’s arm tightens around Malcolm’s chest, across his fractured ribs and Malcolm can’t stop a cry of pain from escaping. Dani flinches and then looks furious at herself.</p><p>“I told you,” she says, “I can’t let you leave.” Her voice is shaking. Her eyes flick back to Malcolm, heavy with fear and apology, and Malcolm wishes he could tell her not to feel bad<em>,</em> that he wouldn’t want her to do anything else. His father exhales heavily.</p><p>“Well… I am sorry to hear that,” he says. His voice is utterly void of anything resembling emotion.</p><p>The hand under Malcolm's chin forces his head back against Martin’s shoulder. He tries to raise his hands, to kick with his bare feet, but it’s like swimming though mud. At the mere attempt, his father’s arm tightens around him, digging into the deep bruising across his chest. His agonised scream is choked off by the wrist pressed across his throat - the blade spiking into him —</p><p>“<em>Wait!!</em> Stop!”</p><p>There’s a terrible pause and Malcolm hangs there, blinded by pain, the knife pressing against his jugular. He tries to find Dani’s face again through the tears clinging to his eyelashes but it’s all just lights, spangled across the dark.</p><p>Then he hears her growl of fury, the snap of the cuffs and he moans in despair, wrenching helplessly against his father as he realises what she’s done for him.</p><p>“Now take the keys to the cuffs, and your radio, and throw them out of reach.”</p><p>He blinks away the tears, to see Dani, one wrist cuffed to the handle of a car door, the gun still trained on him. Her face is stone as she tosses the radio away. He feels his father’s low chuckle rumble at his back.</p><p>“Smart choice, Miss Powell. And don’t worry - Malcolm’s going to be fine. Once I patch him up, he’s going to be better than ever, in fact. We’re going to do some real father-son bonding… make up for all that lost time.” He’s dragged backwards, his father's grip sending stabs of agony through his chest, making his head starry from lack of air... until Dani’s out of view, lost between rows of cars and vans. Only then does Martin finally release him from his stranglehold, throwing him against the side of a van as he produces a set of keys.</p><p>“Bright!” It’s Dani’s voice, faint but raw with panic. “Bright, we’ll find you - it’s gonna be ok -”</p><p>Martin pulls a face. “You know, we really need to talk about why no one calls you <em>Whitly </em>-”</p><p>- and then he shoves Malcolm into the van. A second later he’s sliding into the driver's seat beside him, the ignition roaring to life, drowning out the sound of Dani’s voice. The van pulls away and Malcolm tries to twist in his seat, tries to get his useless body to obey him, but he can’t see Dani, and the rows of cars mean she probably can’t see them either, won’t be able to identify the vehicle they’re driving away in.</p><p>“Finally!” Martin’s face lights up as they pick up speed, a demonic glint in his eyes as they leave Claremont behind, the city laid out before them, ready to swallow them up without a trace. “At long last, my boy - it’s just you and me. Time to get this show on the road!”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Bonding Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Sheets of rain lash down from the sky. Other cars drift pass them but it’s almost impossible to pick out the faces of the drivers, and no one looks twice at the black van cutting through the city, merging into the traffic to blend in with the hundreds of other cars on the road.</p><p>The thrum of the engine, the subtle vibration of the floor, send tingles of agony shooting through his back. Malcolm can feel it even through the chemical haze he's been tricked into. Whatever Martin has poisoned him with has its claws into him deeply now, and it makes him think of the Surgeon’s victims… paralysed, but able to feel the pain. He can feel, but struggles to move; think, but it’s an effort to speak. <em>Who knew the Surgeon’s care would look so much like the Surgeon’s killings? </em>Beside him, his father starts humming tunelessly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. It all feels like a bad dream. Too impossible to be real.</p><p>“Do you remember the last time we were driving like this? You were playing with that pocketknife I got you,” says Martin fondly. “You were so excited!”</p><p>Malcolm shudders, twisting as far away from his father as he can - and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the wing-mirror. His face is spattered with blood. <em>Butcher’s blood</em>, he realises; from when the man’s brains were blown out right in front of him. He stares down at his bound hands, swollen and numb in his lap, and they’re coated with blood too, back from Nicholls’ stab wound. <em>Nicholls is probably dead now. </em>Ginger, Butcher, Hulk,<em> (Gil?)</em>… his father’s body count has leapt up in the last few hours, yet he looks exactly the same as when Malcolm walked into his cell all those hours ago. The same curly hair, the same twinkling, conspiratorial smile… but Malcolm looks…</p><p>
  <em>Like a monster.</em>
</p><p>He remembers how terrifying it was, seeing Butcher’s blood-streaked face emerging out of the darkness for the first time. Now he looks exactly the same.</p><p>“You couldn’t wait to use that knife,” says Martin nostalgically. “I don’t know if you’ll have your old man’s touch with it - hell, we can’t all be world class surgeons - but I wouldn’t put it past you. Finally, we get to have our time again. We can do all the things I was planning for us…”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” whispers Malcolm. His hand must have started shaking, because a moment later Martin takes his own hand off the wheel and wraps it firmly around Malcolm’s, stilling it in his lap. Malcolm tries to tug it away, but his body doesn’t feel like his to command anymore. He doubts he could even stand up with whatever’s coursing through his bloodstream.</p><p>“We made quite a team in there, didn’t we? Those guards - the inmates - no match for the Whitly boys. As a team, Malcolm… I don’t think there’s anything we can’t do.” Malcolm shuts his eyes, as if he can block out the words, the entire situation. “Oh my boy… I know you’re upset about the Lieutenant. But we’re going to make that right. You and me - the way things <em>should</em> be - and then you’ll realise why this is all for the best. It’s the start of a whole new chapter for you… and I really think you’re going to love it.” When Malcolm opens his eyes again, his father is beaming down at him, eyes alight.</p><p>“Where… are we going?” he asks, and every word feels like a stone in his mouth, heaved up from inside with the last reserves of his strength.</p><p>“You can’t guess?” Martin’s eyes flash to his face eagerly, as if they’re playing a game. Normally when he’s around his father, his fear sends his thoughts spinning along at twice their usual rate, a kind of mental fight or flight response that is probably a desperate attempt to try and keep up with the machinations of the man beside him. But now every thought feels like it’s struggling up through quicksand. His reactions feel hopelessly dulled and he can only stumble along in his father’s wake, barely even able to sense the direction of travel.</p><p>“I mean, it goes without saying - more than anything, I’d like to swing by your sister’s place, say hello. Or your mother…” he chuckles, “can you imagine the look on her face, the two of us just strolling in at this hour in the morning?” He glances at Malcolm’s face and huffs out an irritated breath. “Well don’t look so surprised! You know me, I’m a family man. Isn’t it natural that’s the first place I’d want to go?”</p><p>“You can’t…” <em>Ainsley - mom</em> - <em>he </em><span class="u"><em>can’t</em></span><em> let that happen - </em>“you… the police, the police will be there already. The second Dani gets word out, that’s the first place they’ll go —“</p><p>“Yes, you’re right of course,” sighs Martin, peering past the wipers at a street sign. “We just can’t risk it,” and Malcolm’s blood pressure climbs down a couple of notches. “Maybe later, when things have died down… and when I’ve made sure it’s safe for us to return.”</p><p>“Return… from <em>where</em>?”</p><p>“Oh, I have an idea… somewhere nice and quiet, to start with. Give us a chance to do some proper catching up.” Malcolm’s mouth goes dry.</p><p>“The cabin?” he asks, not sure he wants to know if the answer’s yes. “Where we went… with Watkins?”</p><p>“You remember!”</p><p><em>As if he could forget a second time.</em> “You took me there… to kill me,” he points out numbly and Martin looks wounded.</p><p>“Oh my boy… maybe once, maybe for a <em>second,</em> I thought that way - but now? <em>Never</em>. Don’t tell me you fell for that little performance back there?! Malcolm, that cabin is where I saw who you really are. Exactly what you’re capable of. Of course I’d <em>love </em>for us to go back… but your team will be sure to check there. Luckily, I know a couple of other options. We just have to take care of business here first…”</p><p>Malcolm looks at him, dread and confusion written all over his face and Martin chuckles, reaching over again to squeeze his hand. “You’ll see soon enough. We’re very nearly there. Never mind that camping trip… this is where the fun’s <em>really</em> gonna start.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>As the message goes out over the radio, Gil can only think of one thing, his thoughts trapped on a loop. His mind keeps flashing back to that moment Martin had strolled into the canteen and Malcolm had dropped like a stone into his arms.</p><p><em>Not </em> <em> <span class="u">saving</span> </em> <em> Malcolm. </em> <span class="u"> <em>Taking</em> </span> <em> Malcolm.</em></p><p>God knows where, and God knows how the man thinks he’ll pull it off, but if there’s anyone who could manage to turn a nightmare like this night into an opportunity for personal gain it’s the Surgeon. <em>To survive Endicott, only to fall into the hands of his father…</em> Martin wouldn’t kill him, Gil prays, although even <em>that</em> isn’t something he can be fully confident of - but he’s seen the toll a single visit to his father takes on the kid.</p><p>He has to get Malcolm away from him, before the man can inflict any more damage.</p><p>He’s managed to lose the medic, but JT is clinging to him like a shadow as he moves along the prison corridors, checking reports from each area as they scan the perimeter. From there, the dominoes fall one by one, his sense of foreboding growing every moment, as if he’s stumbling through a dream.</p><p>Dani, not checking in over the radio.</p><p>The bloody fingerprints splayed over the door.</p><p>Gil follows JT out into the rain, into the black and white stripes of the industrially-lit night, and for a terrible moment he thinks he’s going to find a body. His knees go weak at the idea, and JT has to reach out and steady him… but that's when they hear her voice, calling out through the misty air.</p><p>JT gets them through the gate, and then they’re running towards her, Gil having to hold onto the car for support by the time he gets there and her eyes fix on him, scanning him in concern as she reaches out and grabs his arm. “Gil…”</p><p>“What happened?” he demands, “are you ok? You hurt?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” She holds out her wrist for JT to unlock the cuff, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes. “But Bright’s gone. His dad took him. I couldn’t get a look at the car… maybe it was a van, or a jeep… ” Her eyes flick back to Gil, guilt and frustration written all over her face. “Gil, I’m sorry.”</p><p>JT’s turning away, barking into the radio, putting out the alert that the Surgeon has broken free of Claremont, is loose somewhere in the city. Gil swallows, gripping the hood of the car in a death grip, trying to stop the world from spinning off beneath him. “He took Malcolm?”</p><p>She nods. A muscle in her jaw trembles, but she manages to keep her voice steady. “I’m sorry, boss. They’ve got maybe a fifteen minute head start… maybe less.”</p><p><em>Don’t throw up. Don’t pass out.</em> Despite Gil feeling like he's on the cusp of doing both, the instructions come without a second thought, years of training kicking in and taking over. “We need to establish a perimeter, all the major roads in and out of the city. Post guards to Jessica Whitly’s house, and Ainsley’s apartment. And we need to keep news of this locked down as long as possible… if word gets out, we’ll have a panic on our hands.”</p><p>JT nods. A moment later and he's slipping the radio back into his pocket, swiping the rain out of his eyes. “It’s done, boss.” He scans over Dani again, checking she’s genuinely ok. “Was Bright conscious? You think he has a chance of getting away?”</p><p>“He was conscious but… he was in pretty bad shape. The Surgeon was armed. Didn’t have a scratch on him.”</p><p>“Course he didn’t,” growls JT. “We can check CCTV -“</p><p>“That’ll take too long!” Gil can see the worried glance that darts between JT and Dani, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to temper his tone. “We need to be after them <em>now</em> - before that son of a bitch can disappear completely.”</p><p>JT looks at him almost nervously for a second, before he ventures: “Boss… I know you’re not gonna want to hear this, but -“</p><p>“You’re right. I’m not,” snaps Gil.</p><p>“But I’m not sure you should even be standing right now,” JT presses. “I’m pretty sure a possible skull fracture means you probably shouldn’t be chasing down a serial killer in a rainstorm.” </p><p>“And if I pass out, you can say I told you so,” Gil says, ignoring the look that this earns him, ignoring Dani's reaction to the news of his injury. “But there is no way I’m going to lie down in the back of ambulance somewhere while Bright has been kidnapped by <em>Martin Whitly</em>, and that’s an end to it. Am I clear?”</p><p>There's a loaded pause. Finally, JT gives him a reluctant nod. He can see Dani swallowing back whatever it is she wants to say. "Ok, boss" she murmurs.</p><p>“Dani - did Martin say <em>anything</em> about where they might be headed? Anything at all?” She shakes her head.</p><p>“You think he’ll go back to the family?”</p><p>“No. He’s too smart for that, he knows we’ll be waiting.”</p><p>“He said… they were gonna make up for lost time,” says Dani, frowning. “He talked about ‘father son bonding time’, whatever the hell that means.”</p><p>“Real cosy,” mutters JT. “What does a guy like Martin Whitly consider bonding? You think he might be headed back to that cabin, like when Bright was a kid?”</p><p>Gil closes his eyes, willing the pieces to assemble - urging his scrambled thoughts into some kind of order. “Martin knows we know about the cabin. He’s gonna want to disappear… that means somewhere none of us know about. Maybe even somewhere Bright doesn’t know about."</p><p>"The Whitly family must have all kinds of properties dotted around the state," points out Dani. "We should start with those.”</p><p>“He'll know we'd start with anywhere that links to the family," says Gil. "It might be he's relying on the sheer number of places slowing us down... but if he can, he'll take Bright somewhere Jessica Whitly knew nothing about." His heart sinks at the realisation. Any other leads about where else Martin liked to operate are going to be <em>at least</em> twenty years old...</p><p>“What about Endicott?” Gil frowns at JT in confusion, before he clarifies: “Martin had dirt on him, right? So… what if Endicott dug up something on Martin in return? They must’ve had some kind of… <em>working relationship</em>. If anyone knows the dirt on the Surgeon, it's gonna be him.”</p><p>“Endicott won’t talk,” says Gil decisively. “Maybe if we had enough on him, we could work it as some kind of deal, but -“</p><p>“But it’s gonna be hard enough to pin the guy down as it is,” finishes Dani heavily. “He’s already wormed his way out of custody.”</p><p>“What?!” She looks taken aback.</p><p>“I... I’m sorry, boss. I thought you knew. He pulled out all the stops, brought in this hot shot lawyer. Without you and Bright able to make a statement - we couldn’t formally issue any charges.”</p><p>“It’s just a delaying tactic,” says JT, by way of consolation. “Guy thinks he’s too important to spend the night in a cell… Boss? You ok?” Because Gil’s fallen silent, a frown furrowing a line between his eyes as replays their conversation.</p><p>
  <em>What does a guy like Martin Whitly consider bonding?</em>
</p><p>“You thought I knew?” he repeats slowly. “About Endicott?” Dani nods.</p><p>“I texted you updates, like we said. I'm guessing you lost your phone.”</p><p>“It’s not lost,” says Gil, the pieces starting to fall into place. “Martin <em>took</em> it. Endicott’s with this lawyer right now?”</p><p>“Probably,” says Dani, frowning, “he must know we’re gonna be launching an investigation into him -“</p><p>“Then that’s where we’re going. That’s where the Surgeon’s gonna be taking Bright.”</p><p>JT and Dani stare at him in confusion, but as soon as Gil’s said the words he’s sure: as sure as he’s been since this entire nightmare began. “It’s what Martin’ll do first - <em>that’s</em> what he meant by father son bonding. He’s going to kill Nicholas Endicott.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. All Yours</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright guys, we are definitely reaching the endgame of this story now... hope you enjoy the final few chapters!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The van screeches up onto the sidewalk and Martin’s hopping out seconds later, coming round to open the door on Malcolm’s side and practically lifting him out. The street lights spin above him as his head lolls against his father’s shoulder, desperately trying to figure out where they are, what the plan is…</p><p>But he’s on a street he doesn’t recognise, held up as his legs tremble beneath him. <em>There’s no one here, no one to call for help… no one to see what’s happening… </em>“Easy does it,” says Martin insistently, his arm coming to wrap around Malcolm's shoulders and gripping him firmly. “Come on now…”</p><p>He’s urged forwards, stumbling, the night swirling around him. The paralysing heaviness that’s draped over him since the car park is starting to fade, but all the same Malcolm’s not sure he could walk unassisted right now - with his hands still tied, with his balance and strength stolen by drugs. He's barely able to focus on the deserted streets, the glossy offices of glass and steel rising around them, before he’s being hustled down an alleyway, towards a back door. “I’m afraid this part of proceedings lacks finesse,” says Martin, brushing the rain out of his eyes - and then he’s kicking in the door.</p><p>There's no one to hear the noise. He’s being pulled up an empty stairwell. His father’s grip around him is oppressive, stifling, but where the rest of his chilled skin is exposed to the air he’s freezing. His cracked ribs stab him in the side with every step they take; the bruises hammered into his spine all coalescing into one mass of agony that fuzzes over his thoughts, brings tears to his eyes. The world blinks in and out around him, little patches of time swallowed by the stars clouding his vision - he’s in a corridor - then an elevator - and the sudden sense of upward movement makes his stomach lurch. Malcolm closes his eyes to try to push back the awful dizziness sweeping through him… and so that he doesn’t have to catch a glimpse of himself and his father, side by side, in the elevator mirror.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> "Where...?" he manages.</span></p><p>“Hush. Nearly there, my boy,” Martin whispers soothingly. “When this is over, you can rest…”</p><p><em>Which means his father’s going to drug him into oblivion when whatever they’re doing here is finished. </em>God knows where he’ll be when he wakes up - what his father’s idea of quality time together might look like. Under different circumstances he might think of his team, know that they’ll be looking for him, that they won’t rest until they find him… but right now, he’s not sure he deserves to be found<em>.</em> Not when helping him might have already cost Gil his life.</p><p><em>Once JT and Dani know that… </em>Malcolm wonders if they’ll want to find him at all.</p><p>The elevator doors open, giving way to a plushly carpeted corridor - frosted glass walls and open plan office space, all empty. And then his father’s setting him down in an office chair. He can’t help a faint groan as he sinks down into it. “Wha,” he mumbles - and then he’s being pushed forwards, the carpet rolling along beneath him. Panic flickers in his chest, a fear his body still refuses to translate into fight or flight - because whatever he thought his father had in store for him, none of it tallied with <em>this… </em>being propped up and wheeled along like he’s on display…</p><p>
  <em>… towards the sound of voices.</em>
</p><p>“… understand my position. How exactly would you be able to trust me not to betray our own client-attorney privilege, if you knew I’d give up the secrets of another?”</p><p>“Well, Everett,” says a voice, warmly amused — and it pierces through the fog he’s in, sending Malcolm’s heartbeat into overdrive - “maybe I flatter myself that some of your clients - and by some, I mean myself - are a little more valued than others. Wouldn’t you say that comes with a different level of privilege?”</p><p>
  <em>Endicott. It’s the voice of Nicholas Endicott.</em>
</p><p>The rage that pulses through him is blinding, and he’s barely conscious of his father’s hand gripping his shoulder warningly, pinning him against the back of the chair. It’s the same smug voice that taunted him over the phone, that sneered at Gil, that watched as they were tortured and beaten and terrorised… exactly as calm, as full of the same easy confidence as it was when this entire ordeal started. <em>As if nothing has changed… as if the nightmare of the last few hours is some kind of </em><span class="u"><em>joke</em></span><em>…</em></p><p>“What exactly are you asking me, Nicholas?” Martin edges forward, and now Malcolm can glimpse the two figures through the frosted glass doors, their voices the only sound in the dim twilight of the office...</p><p>“Martin Whitly may have left some papers in your possession - not to be opened except in the event of his death. I’d assume you’d have them filed somewhere in the building. Ringing any bells?”</p><p>“Oh, I should say so,” says Martin, and he pushes Malcolm into the room.</p><p>Everett Sterling gapes at them in horror from behind his desk. Endicott half-turns in his chair, a glass of whisky balanced in one hand, eyes widening at the sight of father and son, drenched and bloodied in the doorway.</p><p>“What the…!” Sterling rises to his feet behind the desk, boggling at them. It looks like he can barely believe what he’s seeing, and Malcolm doesn’t blame him. It’s like a dream, finding himself in this richly appointed corner-office with its leather chairs and expensive bookcases. Lamplight fills the room with a warm, amber glow; beyond, the city twinkles behind glass walls, gleaming through the rain. After the endless hell-red corridors of Claremont, the stark noir-ish lights of the prison yard car park, it doesn’t feel real.</p><p>“Everett,” greets Martin. “You remember my son, Malcolm, of course?”</p><p>“How are you out of jail?!” Sterling takes a step around his desk and freezes in shock when Martin slips the gun out of his pocket to point it squarely at his heart. “Wait - no -!”</p><p>“And Nicholas,” Martin carries on, ignoring Sterling’s panic as if the man hasn’t spoken. “Bad enough you’re sniffing around my wife, but my lawyer too?”</p><p>Endicott narrows his eyes, making some internal calculation, and then relaxes back against the chair as if nothing more alarming is taking place than some old friends catching up over drinks. Malcolm stares at him, his pulse roaring in his ears.</p><p>“Everett’s actually been representing my interests for quite some time,” he says calmly.</p><p>Sterling’s eyes dart between the two men in naked bewilderment, his hands half-raised in surrender. His gaze lands on Malcolm, slumped in the chair, hands still bound in front of him. “What the <em>hell</em> is going on here? Is he… does he need an ambulance?!”</p><p>“It’s largely other people’s blood,” says Martin airily.</p><p>“What are you doing here? What do you want from me?!”</p><p>“Calm down Everett,” says Endicott, his eyes now roving over Malcolm, one eyebrow raised somewhere between amusement and disdain. “I’m pretty sure Martin’s here for me.”</p><p>“You were… arrested,” breathes Malcolm, unable to wrest his eyes off Endicott. “I heard Gil… give the order…”</p><p>“Only a flying visit, I’m afraid,” smiles Endicott. “I had urgent business to attend to.”</p><p>“Let me guess,” sneers Martin. “You<em> urgently</em> want to destroy the incriminating evidence I have on you… and after our little phone chat earlier, you now know it’s in Sterling’s possession.” His eyes flick to Sterling. “You were just about to hand it straight over, from the sounds of it.”</p><p>Sterling pales. “I… I wasn’t…”</p><p>“You know,” carries on Martin, turning smoothly back to Endicott, “our lawyer here might have gotten you off the hook for now, but things aren’t looking good for you, Nicholas. There’s only so long you can carry on stacking up bodies before the charges start to stick. Trust me, I know.”</p><p>“Not all of us make the same mistakes you made, Martin,” says Endicott, unconcernedly. “Or have the same… liabilities.” He glances at Malcolm, and buried in the depths of that cool gaze is a spark of pleasure as his eyes rake over him. “You’re looking a little worse for wear, Malcolm. Whose blood <em>is </em>that? I’d <em>love</em> to hear what you’ve been up to since we last spoke.”</p><p>Malcolm’s thoughts are a red haze, his vision pulsing with rage. He’s on his feet - and then he’s stumbling, a hand catching him and pushing him back into the chair. “Easy son… give it a minute.” He’s barely conscious of his father’s restraining hand on his shoulder; barely registers his father taking the cuffs from his belt and tossing them to Sterling, ordering him to cuff the other man…</p><p>When Malcolm’s vision has cleared again, Sterling has already retreated to an armchair in the corner, his hands still raised. The chair Malcolm’s in is moving and then Endicott is only couple of feet in front of him, so that they’re sitting eye to eye. The man’s hands have been cuffed in his lap, but he doesn't look like a prisoner. He looks as relaxed and as coolly amused as ever.</p><p>Sterling pipes up from the corner, nervously. “You know… I really feel like whatever this is, it’s between the three of you… so -"</p><p>Martin fires and Malcolm flinches, the final tendrils of mist still clinging to his brain shaken free by the sudden blast. Sterling shrieks, curling up around his leg and keening in agony. Endicott watches him, unmoved.</p><p>“Yes… I imagine that’s agonising,” murmurs Martin. “Kneecapping… <em>very</em> nasty. Maybe you’ll think twice about selling out your clients next time. Now stay quiet, or I’ll give you a matching set.” Sterling whimpers and curls up on the chair as Martin tucks the gun back into his belt.</p><p>“What exactly is the plan here, boys?” asks Endicott. He looks up at Martin, as Martin flexes his hand around the shiv and looks over him appraisingly.</p><p>Martin smiles, a smile that leaves his eyes as cold as two chips of flint. Then he turns and crouches down in front of Malcolm as if Endicott hasn’t spoken. He saws gently through the bindings on Malcolm’s wrists and, when they’re free, slips the handle of the shiv into his hand, wrapping his own hands around it.</p><p>“There you go, my boy… He’s all yours.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The police car roars through the dark streets, the world streaking past in a blur of neon and glass - <em>but it’s still not fast enough,</em> thinks Gil, <em>the Surgeon had a head start -</em> and if they miss them, or if Gil’s miscalculated and Martin’s taken Malcolm somewhere else, it could be days - weeks until they find them. <em>They might </em><span class="u"><em>never</em></span><em> find them. </em>He clenches his jaw, his whole frame buzzing with impatience. <em>Faster… they need to be moving faster, faster -</em></p><p>Dani reaches forward from the backseat. “You think Bright will be inside? The Surgeon might have left him in the car while he goes to confront Endicott. It’d be more secure.”</p><p>“He’ll be inside with him,” says Gil, absolutely sure of it. The part he hasn’t said, can’t bring himself to say, is that he’s fairly sure the plan isn’t for Martin to do it alone.</p><p>He’s seen enough of how that man’s diseased mind works to know it won’t be anything as simple as that. At the very least, he'll want Malcolm <em>there</em>, watching. He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself. Whatever the medics gave him has gone something to dull the stabs of agony reverberating through his skull; he’s holding himself forward in the seat, so as not to brush against the burns which, even covered, are radiating a nauseating, constant pain harsh enough to make sweat pop out on his forehead. He takes a deep breath.</p><p>“Boss -"</p><p>“I’m not sitting this one out, so for the love of God, don’t say so again,” he manages. He opens his eyes again just in time to catch the worried look JT exchanges with Dani via the rearview mirror. “We’re gonna do just the opposite, in fact.”</p><p>“What does that mean?” asks Dani, in a voice that suggests she’s already sure it’s a terrible idea.</p><p>“We don’t know what we’re walking into, beyond the fact it’s gonna be pretty volatile. When we arrive, I go in alone -"</p><p>“No way -"</p><p>“Gil, you can’t -"</p><p>“Just - <em>listen</em>, alright? I go in <em>alone. </em>We can’t risk Endicott <em>or</em> the Surgeon getting away. We’re gonna need the building surrounded, all exits and entry points covered; SWAT and a hostage negotiator, the works. That takes time.” And Gil will <em>not</em> be standing around waiting in the rain for tactical units to arrive while Malcolm’s in there with Endicott and his father. If nothing else, his presence will at least divert their attention… maybe help get Bright out of danger. “Once we’ve got all that in place… you can move in.”</p><p>“But -"</p><p>“I’m not gonna risk either one of them getting loose, and I’m also not leaving Bright alone in there a second longer than I can help it. I go in first - and if I can’t calm things down, I can at least get a sense of what we’re dealing with so you’re not going in blind.” He can see the protest in Dani’s eyes and cuts her off before she can voice it, his voice placating. “I want you both listening in, ok? Be ready to move on my signal, and if that ain’t happening, use your judgement. If they see I’ve come alone, without back up, they won't be expecting the rest of you. Trust me... with those two, we’re gonna want an ace up our sleeves.”</p><p>“And in the meantime, you’re on your own? Stalling for time, with two serial murderers?” asks Dani, sounding spectacularly unimpressed. “Of course we want Bright safe, Gil. But we want <em>you</em> safe too. The Surgeon wants to <em>kill</em> you -”</p><p>“Yeah. But he wants to do it slowly, and talk a lot first. That’s what I’m counting on. Anyone else goes in there, he won’t think twice about pulling the trigger, or hurting a hostage. With me - he’s gonna want to savour the moment. That’s gonna give us the time we need.”</p><p>“Yeah… I am <em>not </em>loving that plan, boss,” says JT, swerving the car around a bend. He kills the siren - they’re almost there.</p><p><em>Hold on, Malcolm,</em> he thinks. <em>Just a little longer…</em></p><p>“Me neither,” Gil admits. “But it’s the best one we’ve got.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm’s breath catches. Martin moves to stand and he catches him by his shirt, keeping him crouched down in front of him, eye to eye. His father meets his eyes with a look of calm concern.</p><p>“What is this?” whispers Malcolm. “You think you can put a knife in my hand… point me at a man… and watch me go?”</p><p>“Oh, Malcolm… this isn’t about what <em>I</em> want,” says Martin gently. His smile is warm, an echo of that night so long ago, and Malcolm can still hear his words floating through his mind. <em>We’re the same.</em> “This is about what <em>you</em> want. This is in your hands now. No easy way out - I’m not going to do this for you. You don’t have to kill him…but just ask yourself: what happens if you <em>don’t</em>?”</p><p>And then he’s stepping away, and Malcolm is left sitting a few feet away from the man responsible for the hell he’s in.</p><p>His hand wrapped around the knife isn’t shaking, notes a distant part of his mind. It’s perfectly steady. The only part of him that is. His father has come to a stop, watching him hungrily. “We can walk out of here tonight with our family <em> safe</em>, Malcolm. Your detective friend, Dani - the rest of your team - you and me. You know what happens to us if he lives; you’ve<em> seen</em> what happens. The question is… are you going to let it<em> keep on</em> happening? Do you really want more blood on your hands?”</p><p>His hands are coated in blood, around the knife. He knows his father is manipulating him; he knows every word is calculated to set off a response... but <em>that doesn’t stop it being true. </em>It doesn’t stop the fact that people have <em>died</em>, more people will die, because Malcolm walked into that cell yesterday evening and asked the wrong question.</p><p>His eyes rise slowly, from the sharpness of the blade, to the man sitting in front of him.</p><p>“Counter offer,” says Endicott smoothly. He's looking at Malcolm like he’s already won; like he’s in on a joke the rest of the world has yet to catch up on. “If you’re going to stab someone, Malcolm… might I suggest you start with your father?”</p><p>Martin scoffs. Endicott smiles at Malcolm, a smile that makes heat boil up in his gut, that makes his fingers clench around the blade even tighter.</p><p>“I’m guessing you don’t <em>want</em> to walk out of here with Martin this evening. You don’t want to become part of some father-son murder team that’s on the run for the rest of your life. I know what he did to you, Malcolm; your mother told me all about it. The night terrors. The chloroform. The mind games. Even bringing you here, putting you here in front of me like a wind up toy… are you really going to let him control you like that?”</p><p>Malcolm grips the side of the desk, levering himself slowly to his feet. His legs are shaking under him, fury coiling under his ribs at the man in front of him, the man beside him, the fact he’s caught between two fucking <em>serial killer psychopaths</em> using him like a pawn on their chess board in a game he can’t escape from. He can’t play by their rules, he tells himself; he can’t keep score in blood. He just has to keep things clear -</p><p>
  <em>We’re the same.</em>
</p><p>He’s not.<em> H</em>e’s <em>not…</em></p><p>He lowers the knife. “Sophie,” he rasps. “Sophie Sanders. Did you find her? Did you kill her?”</p><p>Endicott wrinkles his brow. “Who?”</p><p>“She worked for you,” says Malcolm, his voice shaking. “She ran away… twenty years ago." There’s a flicker of recognition on Endicott’s face as he stares back at him.</p><p>“That girl? She was a nobody. Is she really who you want to talk about?”</p><p>Malcolm clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on the desk.“She wasn’t <em>nobody</em>. I’m going to find out what happened to her… and you’re going to face justice, for what you’ve done.” Endicott glances at Martin.</p><p>“Has your boy always been this naive?” Martin glares, turning back to Malcolm impatiently.</p><p>“<em>Enough</em>, Malcolm! Do what we came here to do -"</p><p>- and Endicott laughs. “Please! He doesn’t have what it takes to kill me. No matter what you'd like to think, Martin… you’re your mother’s son, aren’t you, Malcolm? All smoke… no fire.”</p><p>“Let him live, and we <em>all </em>die,” snarls Martin.</p><p>“Not necessarily.” Endicott leans back in the chair, eyebrow raised in challenge, and Malcolm tries to ignore the thunderous pounding of his heart; the dizzying spin of the room around him. His <em>mind</em> is the best weapon he has right now, and his mind is whispering to him in warning...</p><p>“You’re not scared,” he breathes. “At no point since we came into this room… have you looked scared. <em>Why</em>?”</p><p>Endicott just smirks at him, his eyes gleaming. “How about this,” he suggests, instead of answering. “You let me go now and if you won’t kill him, I’ll make sure your father at least stays locked in the deepest, darkest dungeon this country has to offer. No more cushy consultations. No more leverage to use against you and your mother and your sister. He’ll be out of your life for good. Freedom at last, Malcolm. Isn’t that what you really want?”</p><p>“You’d kill the both of us the moment we turned our backs,” hisses Malcolm.</p><p>“I’m a man of my word. I’ll take you as a man of yours. You promise me you’ll drop these <em>charges</em> against me -" he says the word as if it’s ludicrous; as if the very idea of his criminality is an outrageous lie - “and all of this can be over. The Surgeon, gone. Your mother and sister, safe and happy. You wouldn’t have to call me 'dad', but I’m sure we could tolerate each other. Just say the word… and you’re safe, to live a life that’s free from all of this.”</p><p>From the corner of his eye, Malcolm can see his father narrow his eyes. He tries to ignore the tiny part of him that yearns to leave this room as anything but a captive of Martin Whitly. <em>Wouldn’t it be better,</em> whispers that greedy little part of his mind,<em> wouldn’t anything be better than to have the Surgeon drug him and take him away? Than to have </em><span class="u"><em>this</em></span><em> be his life, forever and ever… a puppet dancing on his father’s strings…</em></p><p>No, he knows. It wouldn’t. He’d be as good as a killer, if he let Endicott carry on as he is. “And what happens to you? You murder innocent people - you silence anyone who stands in your way - and I just stand by and watch you. Is that right?”</p><p>“Well, I wouldn’t ask you to watch,” chuckles Endicott. “All I’d ask if that you don’t ask questions about matters that don’t concern you. Is that really so hard? Even your team - I know that Lieutenant you work under is out of the equation now - but if you agree to point their attention elsewhere, nobody else has to suffer the consequences of this evening.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him. “What do you mean, <em>‘out of the equation’</em>?” Endicott shrugs.</p><p>“Oh. Well, it’s just a guess - based on what I last saw of him. But there’s a lesson in there Malcolm, if you’re smart enough to see it. The Head of Major crimes is off the table… who exactly do you think is going to replace him? I’ll give you a hint: it’s not going to be someone who wants to hear any nonsense about me or my business dealings. I can guarantee that.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” breathes Malcolm, barely hearing a word the man’s just said. “How did you<em> see </em>him?”</p><p>Endicott looks irritated to have been brought back to the same point. “Does it really matter?” Malcolm’s eyes flash and Endicott raises his cuffed hands in mock surrender. “Fine.” He gestures to his phone, left on the far side of the desk. Malcolm hesitantly picks it up and passes it to him. “This was sent to me by one of my employees - they do love jostling for credit. Just remember Malcolm - we work together, and this doesn’t have to happen again.”</p><p>He holds up the phone, a bored expression on his face. Malcolm takes it out of Endicott’s hand. It feels like all his blood drains out of him, as every tightly-clutched shred of hope he’d been clinging onto is dashed. He staggers and almost falls, stumbling into the desk, barely able to keep himself upright. “No,” he whispers. “No, no, no…. “</p><p><em>Gil. </em>The photo is taken from above, a point-of-view shot of someone standing over him where he lies, curled over on his side, bloodied and bound. The lights are bright (and some part of his mind registers that the lights are on at all, <em>which means he survived the lockdown; he survived whatever those men did to him, and </em><span class="u"><em>then</em></span><em>…) </em>It’s bright enough that Malcolm can see the expression in his eyes as he looks up at whoever it is taking the picture. More than the bruises or blood, It’s the look on Gil's face that punches him in the gut, that steals the breath from his lungs. Angry, and afraid, and <em>defeated</em>.</p><p>The phone falls out of his hand. He can’t breathe, can’t think. He’d feared, but he hadn’t <em>known</em>; some part of him had been clinging to hope, in spite of everything -</p><p>And Endicott sits there coolly. <em>Like it means </em><em><span class="u">nothing</span>.</em></p><p>The man just keeps on watching him, his gaze taunting, not a trace of fear on his face - as if this is all some fucked up<em> joke</em>. Malcolm forgets about the Surgeon, watching him hungrily; because it doesn’t matter anymore, if he becomes like him, the thing he’s always feared. It doesn’t matter that Gil wouldn’t want it, because Gil’s <em>dead</em>, dead because of his actions and the man sitting in front of him.</p><p>“How long and you been working together - a year? Six months?” There’s a flicker of alarm in the man’s eyes now as he takes in the look on Malcolm’s face, as if realising he’s made some subtle miscalculation. “I understand you’re upset, but think about your <em>future</em>, Malcolm. I’ll pull a few strings, get you a new boss who will look on your work <em>very</em> favourably. Hell, you might even get you a promotion out of this!“</p><p>The knife is waiting, in his hand, as if it belongs there; as if it was always meant to be there. Endicott leans back in his chair.</p><p>“Oh,” he breathes, understanding dawning, "you were close<em>…</em>” And for the first time Malcolm can see a glimmer of fear on his face, and it only feeds the monster growling in his chest, only makes the red haze burn brighter.</p><p>He takes a step closer, the blade gripped in his hand.</p><p>“You killed him. You <em>murdered</em> Gil Arroyo. Now you deserve to die.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Loose Ends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>The shiv is shaking in his hand. Endicott’s face wavers in front of him —</p><p>
  <em>His father’s face wavers in front of him. “We’re the same,” he says, his smile filling up the world -</em>
</p><p>He tightens his grip, the knife held out in front of him as he steps forwards —</p><p>
  <em>As he runs through the woods —</em>
</p><p>Raises his arm -</p><p>
  <em>The blade stabs upwards - Watkins screams —</em>
</p><p>“You deserve to die,” he whispers, and he means it, he <em>believes</em> it, so why can’t he…</p><p>
  <em>The blade stabs upwards. Watkins smiles - Malcolm screams —</em>
</p><p>Endicott’s hands rise, the clink of chains rattling through his mind -</p><p>
  <em>From the huddled figure in the trunk -</em>
</p><p><em>From the </em> <em> metal locked around his wrists -</em></p><p>Around <em>Endicott’s</em> wrists…</p><p>“You deserve to… You….”</p><p>
  <em>“You’re a real hero,” says Gil, crouching before him…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>… looking up at him from where Shiv holds him on the floor. “He’s nothing like his father -”</em>
</p><p>But Gil’s dead… and Endicott is <em>why</em>, and that’s why <em>he has to die…</em></p><p><em>Why Malcolm </em> <span class="u"><em>has</em></span> <em> to…</em></p><p>“Don’t do it, kid.”</p><p>Malcolm screws his eyes shut - assaulted by too many memories, too many voices — every nightmare, living and dreamed, spiralling through him, threatening to swallow him whole -</p><p>“Bright...”</p><p>But Gil’s voice sounds <em>so real</em>…so real he can’t resist glancing back over his shoulder -</p><p>At the figure who’s appeared in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Malcolm.</p><p>His knees buckle. He catches himself on the desk, light-headed - his breath coming in too-short pants, his vision blurring as the figure takes an anxious step forwards, reaching towards him. “You’re not real,” he says. It’s a hallucination - Gil’s as bruised and bloody as he was in that photo, and that’s where this is coming from… <em>because he has another ghost to follow him now,</em> <em>as well as Sophie - another person he couldn’t save —</em></p><p>“You just <em>won’t die</em>, will you?” snarls Martin and Malcolm freezes…</p><p>
  <em>Because if Martin can see him too, then - that means —</em>
</p><p>The hallucination takes another step, reaching out gently - and a hand lands on his arm, paying as little heed to the bloody shiv he’s gripping as if Malcolm was empty-handed. “Gil…” he gasps. “You… are you -?"</p><p>“I’m here, kid. And I’m as real as you are.”</p><p>Malcolm reaches out with a trembling hand and grabs a fistful of Gil’s shirt. <em>R</em><em>eal -</em> he’s here, he’s <em>alive</em> -</p><p>The knife clatters to the floor. Malcolm collapses against the older man, gripping on tight, as Gil’s hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, solid and warm and <em>alive alive alive…</em></p><p>“I thought you were dead - I thought -“</p><p>“Hey - it’s ok…” Gil murmurs. His hand squeezes Malcolm’s shoulder, his other arm keeping him firmly on his feet as his legs tremble beneath him and the world spins. “Just breathe…” Malcolm buries his head in Gil’s shoulder, trying to swallow back a sob, to get himself under control. Gil holds him up, but he doesn’t lean in to hug him; he’s still scanning the room, taking in the now unconscious Sterling in the armchair, Endicott, his father <em>-</em></p><p>The giddying, surreal rush of seeing Gil in front of him swept everything else aside - as if the danger fell away with the man’s presence - <em>but of course it hasn’t. </em>Malcolm pulls away in sudden alarm, suddenly registering the glued-shut cut at Gil’s temple, the bruises, the slightly stiff way he’s holding himself, and he feels a stab of shame and panic. Just because Gil’s alive doesn’t mean he’s not still more injured that Malcolm, and the man just walked into a room <em>with two serial killers</em> for him, to tell <em>him</em> it’s going to be ok, and -</p><p>
  <em>- and stop him from killing a man in cold blood.</em>
</p><p>Malcolm feels something in his chest curl up and shrivel as he realises what Gil saw… what Gil walked in to, after risking so much to follow him here. He looks up at him, his heart faltering when the man won’t meet his eyes… but of course Gil needs all his focus for the situation at hand -</p><p>“Well - there you go, Malcolm!” Endicott sits back in the chair, seemingly relaxed again now the shiv isn’t coming at him. “No hard feelings, eh? You’re certainly looking better than my sources would have had me believe, Lieutenant.”</p><p>“I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to arrest you myself,” says Gil, his expression pure ice.</p><p>“<em>Arrest</em> me? Are you sure you don’t want to stab me as well? Your employee seems to prefer murder to police work.” Endicott’s eyes rake over Malcolm, dissecting, contemptuous, and Malcolm can see the fury in Gil’s eyes. He doesn’t know if the fury’s for Endicott himself… or because Gil can’t deny the man’s words, and he feels a pain in his chest, an aching, hollowed out feeling…</p><p>“You’re going to jail,” snaps Gil. “You and Martin here can work out whatever issues you have from adjoining cells, and you can leave Bright out of it.”</p><p>“Oh, is <em>that</em> what’s happening here? Here was me thinking it was my lucky day. Two for one.” Martin takes a step forwards, and Malcolm feels Gil tense beside him, following his every movement with his eyes. “I don’t know how the hell you’re still alive, Lieutenant - but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather kill, other than Nicholas here. You were actually <em>stupid</em> enough to follow us in here alone… <em>unarmed</em>…" A smile breaks over Martin's face as he takes in the man's empty hands, the fact there's no sign of a gun. "Very touching, of course - but that kind of heroism will get you killed.”</p><p>The gun is back in Martin’s hand and Malcolm’s breath catches; all his elation at seeing Gil spiralling into a new kind of terror. “No -"</p><p>“No? He dies - I get my freedom, and my son. He lives - I get neither.”</p><p>“You won’t have me,” says Malcolm, turning to try and angle himself in front of Gil’s body, even as Gil firmly keeps him in place with a hand on his arm.</p><p>“I won’t have him separate us again.”</p><p>“<em>He </em>didn’t separate us! You did, when you murdered twenty three people!” Malcolm tries to step forward, his eyes blazing, but Gil’s grip is like iron. He’s sweeping the room again, his eyes darting from where Endicott sits in cuffs, to Sterling, bloody and unconscious on the chair, and Malcolm doesn’t understand… because the threat is <em>right in front of them</em> and it’s his father - it's <em>always</em> his father -</p><p>“You and me are leaving here together Malcolm, and nobody is getting in the way of that.” The gun rises to point right at Gil. “You’re leaving him behind… but I’ll compromise, since he’s apparently so <em>important </em>to you. I<em> could</em> shoot him somewhere that gives him a chance at survival. Finish what we came here to do… and we can leave him alive.”</p><p>“Wh- what?”</p><p>“Kill Endicott… or else the Lieutenant here gets a bullet in his brain as a parting gift.” Malcolm stares at him, freezing at the choice laid out in front of him. “Well? Don’t play the innocent now,” snaps Martin, “you were all ready to stab him five minutes ago. My patience is running out, Malcolm...”</p><p>“Don’t listen to him, kid.” Gil’s hand finally uncurls from around his bicep… and to Malcolm’s utter confusion, he <em>turns his back</em> <em>on Martin</em>, stepping towards Sterling instead, curled up and unconscious in the armchair. “This the lawyer?”</p><p>He looks up to meet Malcolm’s stunned expression. “Bright?” Malcolm manages a nod as Gil checks him over. “He got shot?”</p><p>“I’m developing quite a taste for firearms,” says Martin, sounding torn between annoyance and intrigue at Gil’s behaviour. He watches as Gil shakes Sterling, steering the man back towards consciousness, helping him into a sitting position as the man blinks around blearily.</p><p>“You’re gonna be ok,” he says. “We’re gonna get you an ambulance.”</p><p>“You might want to save a little more of that concern for yourself,” says Martin. He clicks the safety off, ignoring Malcolm’s gasp of panic. “I’d always planned on killing you slowly - with something more intimate than a bullet - but I’m sure it will be incredibly satisfying either way.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” says Gil, sounding incredibly unimpressed. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Malcolm watches, heart in his throat. He has no idea what Gil is doing - and it’s clear his father doesn’t either.</p><p>“Remind me,” says Martin, narrowing his eyes.</p><p>“That’s <em>my</em> gun,” says Gil, turning back towards Martin, leaving Sterling propped up on the chair. “I know exactly how many bullets were in it when I came into Claremont… and I’ve been counting. One for the guy who attacked you. One while we were running away. One for Butcher… and now one for Everett Sterling. Do you know how many that leaves?”</p><p>A muscle in Martin’s jaw twitches as Gil steps back beside Malcolm… and gives Martin the coldest smile Malcolm’s ever seen on his face.</p><p>“<em>Zero</em>.”</p><p>With a snarl of rage, Martin pulls the trigger. Malcolm flinches but Gil doesn’t bat an eyelid, and the empty <em>click</em> of the chamber sounds feebly.</p><p>The silence that follows is deafening.</p><p>“You don’t have to do anything Dr Whitly tells you, Bright,” Gil says. He picks up the shiv, handing it to Malcolm. He reaches into his own pocket and Martin’s eyes flare in fury as he brings out the small, discreet police-issue taser that’s been hiding there. “Because as of now, you and me are the only armed people in this room. Back up’s on its way. It’s over… for both of them.”</p><p>Malcolm feels Gil’s hand land on his shoulder, squeezing him comfortingly, and it takes all his discipline not to sink to his knees and cry. Instead, he closes his eyes, weak with relief. The longest ordeal of his life is <em>finally</em> over, and they <em>survived...</em> Gil’s alive, Endicott’s captured, he’s not walking out of here as Martin Whitly’s hostage…</p><p>A sound breaks through the stillness.</p><p>
  <em>Laughter.</em>
</p><p>Malcolm opens his eyes.</p><p>“That was <em>very</em> well played, Lieutenant,” says Endicott, smirking at them from his chair. “It showed more flair than I would have expected from you.”</p><p>“I’m really not interested in your opinion,” says Gil. “You can give your statement to my officers in a couple of minutes.” Malcolm feels a second rush of relief to know that reinforcements are so close... because even without a gun, the Surgeon is still the most dangerous man in almost any room…</p><p>Endicott sighs. “I have to admit, this really isn’t how I'd imagined things going,” he murmurs. “I <em>was</em> fascinated to see what you’d do, Malcolm… and I never dreamed you’d manage to survive Claremont, Gil, especially not after that photo. My original plan was a lot simpler…<em> four</em> bodies will be a much trickier clean up. Still, it’ll be quite the story for your officers, when they get here.”</p><p><em>He never looked scared.</em> The hairs on the back of Malcolm’s neck all stand up. Even his father has paused in his furtive scanning of the room, his eyes landing on Endicott in sudden wariness. Endicott’s smile only widens, basking in the attention of three pairs of worried eyes on him.</p><p>“What story?” breathes Malcolm, dreading the answer.</p><p>“An attempt on my life… probably from the same corrupt cops trying to sully my reputation. I apologise, Everett,” he adds, looking over to the bewildered man in the corner. “It was nothing personal. But I don’t believe in loose ends. You knew too much… and as we’ve learned this evening, you can’t be relied on to protect the information entrusted to you. Yes, thank you. All of them.”</p><p>Malcolm can’t figure out who he’s talking to - doesn’t understand - until the window smashes behind Endicott, shards of glass like diamonds raining down on the floor as the sound of a shot rings out. All of them recoil, staggering back -</p><p>And Sterling lands on the floor, a bullet hole neatly positioned in the centre of his forehead. Gil stares down at him, his eyes wide with horror —</p><p>He doesn’t see the tiny red dot that appears on his chest, dancing over his heart.</p><p>Malcolm throws himself forward with the blast of the second shot already ringing in his ears.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. BANG!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Gil crashes backwards, the gunshot still ringing in his ears, his breath smashed out of him as he hits the carpet. For a moment all he can do is sprawl where he lies, prostrated by the star-burst of pain ringing through his skull from the impact. There’s a weight on top of him, anchoring him amidst the dizzying chaos and then the weight shifts, and Gil realises it’s a person, it’s <em>Malcolm —</em></p><p>There’s the <em>BANG</em> of another gunshot and a hole is punched out of the wall inches above their heads, a spray of plaster exploding over them. Gil pushes himself over, flipping the kid beneath him, shielding his body as much as he can with his own. He catches a glimpse of Sterling, lying a few feet away, just blood and shards of glass between them, his eyes wide and surprised in death. There’s another <em>BANG</em> and this time Gil swears he feels the bullet whizzing over his right ear - another cloud of white dust envelopes him.<em> He needs to get them to safety, to cover, </em><em>now</em><em> —</em> he twists, and spots Martin, hands over his head, prone behind the desk. Martin’s eyes dart up, finding him, and for a second Gil can see his own fear reflected back at him —</p><p><em>BANG! </em>A picture explodes in its frame above him, showering down glass.</p><p>Gil hunches, trying to keep the shards from landing on Malcolm, pulling the kid along below him as he worms across the floor. He turns his head to the window and freezes when he sees the red wink of a laser, momentarily dazzling him —</p><p>
  <em>“NYPD! Put down your weapon! You are surrounded!” </em>
</p><p>The sound of the megaphone carries into the office; along with the cold night breeze he can feel ruffling his hair, gusting in from where the glass walls used to be. There’s sirens; shouting; tyres screeching; and the red light disappears, leaving him blinking and half-blinded. <em>His team - SWAT, the hostage negotiator - </em>they must have been right outside, ready to move in when the sniper caught them all by surprise. The sort of police presence strong enough to scare off even a hired assassin the likes of which Endicott could afford… but all the same, he stays curled over Malcolm, clinging to the floor, not trusting that the moment he raises his head won’t be the moment he hears a fourth and final <em>BANG: </em>one that takes his head off. A pulse of blue light momentarily sweeps past the open side of the room, picking out every shimmering dash of rain. <em>More police. More back up.</em> Gil’s muscles start to unlock, his body slowly beginning to believe what his brain is half-sure of: that the shooter has fled, or been contained; that his team will soon be bursting through the door…</p><p>He levers himself up shakily on his forearms, just enough to be able to focus on Malcolm lying below him. “Kid,” he gasps, “Bright -"</p><p>Malcolm blinks up at him dazedly. His eyes scan over Gil’s chest; he lifts a shaking hand and plants it over Gil’s heart, as if checking that he’s still there. “Are… are you hit?! Gil, are you -”</p><p>“Didn’t get me,” he breathes, “I’m fine, kid. Are you hurt?” Malcolm shakes his head but he doesn’t move his hand, seemingly not content with Gil’s assurances til he’s confirmed his story for himself. He sags back to the floor in relief, his head flopping back on the dusty carpet…</p><p>And then he stills, every muscle tensing.</p><p>His hand curls into a fist around Gil’s shirt, his eyes wide and fixed beyond him, looking over to where the office gives way to the night sky. Half his face is misted faintly with rain, Gil sees now, blown inside by the wind. He twists to see what the kid’s looking at…</p><p>The Surgeon stands silhouetted against the darkness, his profile pulsing red and blue along with the lights outside. Endicott looks up at him from his chair, hands still cuffed in his lap, a look of pure fury on his face. In the Surgeon’s hand, a shard of glass, like a dagger. It flashes as he raises it above him.</p><p>Gil’s half-stumbled to one knee as the first strike stabs into the man’s chest. Again, and again, and again, a vicious frenzy of blows that sends red spraying out in founts. Endicott sags in the chair, staring down at his chest in shock, at the stains like rose petals blossoming over his spotless white shirt, spreading and merging…</p><p>And then Martin grips his hair, and lifts the dagger one more time. “You should have left my family alone, Nicholas,” he hisses, a smile that looks more like the snarl of some feral animal contorting his face — and he slashes the shard across the man’s throat.</p><p>Gil staggers where he stands, transfixed as crimson pours from the wound, Endicott's head lolling brokenly on his chest. Suddenly he looks small, slumped in the chair - a million miles away from the man who wielded so much power; who held them all in his shadow, scrabbling desperately for survival while he sat back and smiled. Gil watches the life draining out of him, frozen in horror, sickened by the stench of blood. Martin sighs in satisfaction… and then he meets his eyes.</p><p>He smiles, a smile that’s pure predator.</p><p>“Lieutenant… are you a religious man?” He takes a step closer. “I’m not a believer, myself.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t think so,” breathes Gil, eyeing the dagger of glass in the man’s hand. “Not with where you’re going.”</p><p>Martin chuckles. “Well then… now might be a good time to pray.” Gil takes a step back. <em>The taser </em>- he dropped the taser when he fell, and now he has no idea where it is amongst the shattered glass and debris… “Maybe I can’t walk out here with my son this evening - from the sounds of those sirens, that might be trickier than I thought - but do you know the one thing I can do? I can make sure that <em>you</em> don’t, either.”</p><p>“No…”</p><p>Malcolm tries to get to his feet behind Gil. “I won’t let you… kill him, I won’t…” He grabs Gil’s arm, pulling himself upright, shaking like a leaf. His eyes are huge, fixed on his father. <em>He’s so pale</em>, notes the part of Gil’s brain that isn’t frantically trying to calculate the odds of him coming out on top against <em>the goddamn Surgeon </em>in his condition<em>; </em>that isn’t listening out desperately for the sound of back up racing through the offices behind them… <em>but they’ll be dealing with the sniper,</em> he realises with a sinking feeling; <em>they won't be here until it’s already too late….</em></p><p>“Out of the way, Malcolm,” murmurs Martin, his eyes glinting in anticipation. “We always knew it would come to this. He should have died twenty years ago. His time’s run out.”</p><p>“No,” says Malcolm, trying to step in front of Gil… but he staggers. Gil grabs him instinctively before he can collapse, catching him around the waist. The kid gasps in pain.</p><p>Blood slickens Gil’s grip, warm and wet.</p><p>“Kid… what…?“</p><p>The kid’s shirt was dark with blood when he left the prison; dark enough to disguise the fresh blood welling up beneath Gil’s fingers. Malcolm stares down at himself, his eyes wide and surprised, as Gil yanks the ruined material aside.</p><p>Reveals the bullet wound underneath.</p><p>Malcolm brings his hand to the wound as if in a dream, before he looks up at Gil in confusion… and to Gil’s horror there’s <em>blood</em> staining his lips, impossibly bright against the pallor of his face.</p><p>“So that’s… what that was,” he mutters. His eyes roll back in his head and suddenly Gil’s the only thing holding him up, Malcolm a dead weight in his arms.</p><p>“<em>No...</em>” Gil lowers his limp body to the floor, not a thought for the man behind him - “no, no kid stay with me… Malcolm?! Malcolm!” He presses his hands over the bloody, bubbling hole in the kid’s chest, and Malcolm cries out weakly, jerking against the floor. The blood keeps on coming, warm and sticky and seeping through Gil’s fingers, ribbons of it running down onto the carpet, more and more and more —</p><p>A shadow falls over him.</p><p>Martin, staring down at them, his hand still gripped around the shard. The man’s suddenly empty-looking eyes drift from Gil’s scarlet-soaked hands, up his body, to his face…</p><p>“Help me,” Gil gasps.</p><p>The shard, opaque with blood, drops from his hand. Martin lands on his knees beside Gil. “<em>Move</em>,” he raps out, and then he’s pushing Gil aside, ripping the tattered remains of Malcolm’s shirt open, hands pressing and dancing around the violent rip in his skin. “Tilt his head back, keep an eye on his breathing. I need to stop the bleeding -"</p><p>Gil closes his shaking hands around the kid’s face, doing as Martin says, his palms leaving shocking crimson streaks behind. He’s deathly pale; the bruises marking his throat, highlighting one cheekbone, stand out in stark contrast the rest of him - so still, so bloodless… <em>God, he looks dead already... </em>His eyelashes flutter rapidly, his lips parting to breathe out a word, but there’s no sound. “Bright, I’m here - you’re gonna be ok. Can you hear me? Malcolm?”</p><p>His lips move again, and then his head lolls in Gil’s grasp. Martin presses down on the wound and he <em>convulses</em>, eyes flying open, wide with pain and fear. His face is as cold as a corpse in Gil’s shaking hands but he’s <em>alive,</em> gasping with panic, trying to speak -</p><p>“Keep him <em>still!</em>” barks Martin and Gil catches his wrists, trying to both hold him down and calm him as his eyes fly around in terror -</p><p>“Bright - <em>Bright,</em> look at me! That’s right, focus on me, kid. You’re gonna be ok - just hold on -“</p><p>“Gil,” he gasps and his eyes get impossibly even wider as the word comes out like a death rattle. He’s fighting against his grip, struggling to draw in air, wheezing desperately as his eyes lock onto Gil’s in terror.</p><p>“He can’t breathe!“</p><p>“Get me the knife,” orders Martin. He meets Gil’s horrified, <em>hell no</em> gaze and repeats, “if he’s going to breathe, I need a knife, and a pen. <em>N</em><em>ow!</em>” and Gil has no idea what the hell the man is doing but he forces himself to rip his eyes away from Malcolm, launching himself to his feet, searching the smashed chaos of the desk. There’s several pens scattered across the floor, along with the discarded shiv, and he grabs them all before he’s back at Malcolm’s side. He dumps them beside Martin and then captures one of Malcolm’s hands again, squeezing it reassuringly as the kid’s eyes land on him - and then flit to his father. Even on the brink of passing out, Malcolm is with it enough to look between them in panicked bewilderment —</p><p>“Put your hands here,” - Martin indicates where his own are currently clamped down over the wound - “press down hard.” Gil obeys him - but it means he has no free hand to comfort Malcolm, to calm him as the kid squirms weakly against the floor, feebly trying to bat him away as he pushes down on the mess of cloth and blood Martin’s left behind. His eyes find Gil’s again, wide and terrified. He tries to say something - and <em>his lips are turning blue</em>, Gil registers in horror, he <em>can’t </em>talk - it sounds like he’s slowly suffocating -</p><p>And then Martin’s crouching down where Gil was kneeling only moments earlier, unscrewing the nib of a pen with quick, deft movements. His hands are completely steady, as if it isn’t his own <em>son</em> currently bleeding to death of the floor below him and Gil’s not sure if it’s terrifying or reassuring. “Ok now… stay as still as you can, my boy,” says Martin, holding up the shiv and looking at it speculatively as Malcolm stares up at him in horror. “I’m afraid this is <em>definitely</em> going to hurt.”</p><p>The blade hovers over his chest and Martin narrows his eyes, glancing back at Gil. “Hold him down<em>.</em>” Gil does, wrapping his hands around the kid’s wrists as Martin presses down with the knife and Malcolm makes a sound of pure<em> agony. </em>Gil has to bite back a sob, forcing himself not to slacken his grip as Malcolm struggles weakly against him. The kid’s already bleeding to death and Martin <em>keeps on cutting</em> and he has the sudden dizzying fear that he’s misunderstood; that Martin’s not trying to save his son but inflict some new, terrible punishment on him, and Gil’s the one helping him do it -</p><p>“What are you doing to him?!”</p><p>“Saving his life,” says Martin shortly, his fingers digging into the wound he’s just inflicted as Malcolm lets out a choked scream. “His lung’s collapsing. Put your hands back where they were and press down, <em>hard</em>. I need you to seal the wound.”</p><p>Gil does so, flinching at the helpless moan Malcolm makes… but then there’s a new sound, a faint hissing of air, and the kid suddenly heaves in a breath like a deep sea diver coming up for air. His chest swells under Gil’s hands as his eyes slip closed in relief - or maybe he’s just finally been overwhelmed by pain. They don’t open again… but he keeps on breathing, his chest rising and falling.</p><p>“What - what did you -?”</p><p>“Temporary chest tube,” says Martin shortly, adjusting the pen shaft currently sticking out of the kid’s chest without batting an eyelid. “It’s not exactly ideal, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.” He starts stanching the bleeding around the incision he’s just made and all Gil can do is watch: watch the Surgeon do his work, watch Malcolm’s chest rise and fall, the pen bobbing along with it, while he keeps his hands pressed over the bullet-hole and tries to swallow down the panic threatening to engulf him. Martin swears in frustration, examining his handiwork and clearly not satisfied with whatever he’s seeing.</p><p>“EMTs will be on their way,” says Gil, trying to reassure himself. He hates his own helplessness, hates not knowing what Malcolm needs from him. “Is there anything else we can do?” He doesn’t dare lift his hands away from where they’re pressing down on the makeshift dressing Martin's created, but he has no idea if it’s making any difference. Martin sits back, his gaze finally rising from his son to the man kneeling opposite him.</p><p>“Anything <em>we</em> can do?” His eyes flash in sudden rage. “This is <em>your</em> fault! It should be <em>you</em> who’s <em>bleeding to death</em> - not <em>my son!</em>”</p><p>At the same time, they both become aware of distant banging, doors slamming below them; a rush of activity moving closer. Their eyes lock across the kid’s limp body and Gil’s suddenly aware of the intimate distance between them. <em>Too close</em>... but Gil can’t make himself move away; can’t take his hands from where they’re pressing down. As if he's watching in slow motion, he sees the man’s fingers curl around the shiv, still shining with Malcolm’s blood…</p><p>“<em>NYPD, put your hands in the air!!”</em></p><p>The door bursts open. Bodies in tactical gear swarm in; every one of them aiming their weapons at Martin; there’s the simultaneous <em>click</em> of every gun being readied to fire. “Put the knife down,” says a voice he knows is Dani’s, as JT says,</p><p>“drop it, <em>now</em>!”</p><p>but Gil doesn’t see them. His eyes are fixed on Martin, as Martin keeps his eyes fixed on Gil, his knuckles white where he grips the knife. There’s a moment that seems to last an eternity…</p><p>… and then the man’s fingers uncurl. The shiv drops to the floor as Martin raises his hands. A pair of SWAT officers are wrestling him to his feet in seconds, cuffing his hands behind his back as someone else calls out for medical and Dani drops to her knees beside Gil, staring down at Malcolm in raw horror. “Oh my god,” she whispers…</p><p>There’s more footsteps, more men and women pouring into the room. He hears JT swearing from behind him, no doubt taking in the sight of Sterling and Endicott lying in bloody pools on the carpet. Gil can’t spare them any attention, though; he barely registers the EMTs descending until one of them kneels right beside him, physically moving his hands away from where they’re pressing down and taking over. He’s hardly conscious of being urged to his feet, being tugged gently back from the hive of activity that’s descended around Malcolm…</p><p>“Gil…”</p><p>“Get your hands <em>off me</em>,” Martin is hissing, “I am trying to <em>save </em>my son -!” He starts barking orders, something about <em>pneumothorax </em>and the officer trying to drag him away halts in his efforts as he sees the EMTs responding to him.</p><p>“<em>Gil.</em>”</p><p>Hands land on his shoulders, snapping him out of his haze to realise that Dani’s looking at him urgently, her eyes full of worry. “You with me? Are you hit?” It takes him a moment to understand the question. His thoughts feel like they’re moving through quicksand.</p><p>“No,” Gil manages. “Bright… Bright pushed me down…”</p><p>And now he’s utterly still, and it’s all <em>wrong. </em>He’s deathly pale on the floor, the calm centre in a sea of gloved hands and urgent conversation. “He’s coding,” says a woman, and Gil sees a man raise the paddles of a defibrillator, hears the charging <em>whine</em> of the machinery. He can’t breathe.</p><p>“Clear...”</p><p>Malcolm’s body jerks like a rag-doll, then slumps back to the ground. The whining grows louder and louder in Gil’s ears, deafening, drowning out everything else —</p><p>“Clear...”</p><p>JT watches, a sickened look on his face. Dani’s grip on his arm tightens. Martin stares down, the officer holding him watching along with him as the paddles jolt again and Malcolm slams up and down again against the floor...</p><p>He can’t watch this, <em>he can’t,</em> and he can’t look away either. He’s not sure what’s holding him up anymore. <em>No no no no no</em> is chanting through his head but it does nothing to change the looks on the medics’ faces, the sombre glances passing between them. He hears a sob and feels Dani’s hand trying to pull him away, to turn him so he can’t see…</p><p>“Clear...”</p><p>“Please,” he whispers, “please…” The paddles jolt and Malcolm jerks and Gil’s own heart is seizing inside him. His vision is trembling, and his breath, and his body -</p><p>“We have sinus rhythm. Blue call this one - let’s move, let’s move -”</p><p>His breath catches in his chest, a stab of hope that's physically painful as he tries to understand… because the kid hasn’t moved, hasn’t so much as twitched, but the movements around him are urgent and co-ordinated again, the medics moving purposefully as they slide a board beneath Malcolm’s body and fit an oxygen mask over his face. There’s a giddy laugh - Martin, watching raptly, a smile spreading over his face. “My boy,” he says, “oh… my boy…”</p><p>“What -” Gil’s voice cracks; he sucks in a deep breath and tries again. “What’s happening?” One of the EMTs glances up at him, her fingers not even pausing as she attaches something to Malcolm’s hand.</p><p>“We need to get him to the hospital as soon as possible,” she says calmly, “but he’s going to be in the best possible hands. Please, if you could all move back…”</p><p>The relief Gil’s only just daring to let himself feel falters immediately. <em>She can’t make him any promises,</em> he realises; the kid’s clinging on, but who knows by how frayed a thread. He makes himself take a step back, and then another, but he’s moving on autopilot - he barely notices JT until he’s right in front of him, and only because he’s half-blocking his view of Malcolm, along with the medic he’s brought with him.</p><p>“Lieutenant Arroyo,” says the medic. “How about you come downstairs with us so we can get you looked over?”</p><p>Gil shakes his head, wincing at the pain that follows the movement. “No… No, I’m not leaving him."</p><p>“We have more than one ambulance,” says the man. “The team here’s going to need to treat Mr Bright on route to the hospital, but we can follow and get you some help on the way.” He keeps talking, something about skull fractures and stress on the brain, but Gil zones out, his eyes sliding back to the EMTs behind him until JT catches him by the shoulder again.</p><p>“We’ll be right behind them, boss,” he says reassuringly. “I promise. We’re not gonna leave him.”</p><p>He's dizzy. Gil suddenly realises that Dani’s not just holding onto his arm for comfort; she’s half keeping him upright. All the adrenaline that’s been propelling him through the last hellish minutes is fading, the splitting ache in his skull starting back up again, injuries he’d almost forgotten suddenly clamouring to be heard. From the expressions on his team’s faces, he must be starting to look as bad as he feels. The medic opens his mouth to say something else, but then -</p><p>“No! Please - I have to stay with my son!”</p><p>All of them turn, to where Martin Whitly is appealing to the officer trying to escort him from the room. “I’m his <em>father… </em>we’re <em>family</em>.” Martin’s expression is imploring, the picture of fatherly concern. “For God’s sake, he’s at death’s door! A full police escort, cuffs, chains, whatever it takes, but <em>please… </em>my boy needs me.”</p><p>The officer holding him hesitates, his expression softening. His eyes move over to where the paramedics are securing Malcolm’s limp body to the backboard and Gil’s brain finally unlocks; he takes a shaky step forward.</p><p>“He doesn’t go <em>anywhere near </em>Bright,” he orders hoarsely. “Get him the hell out of here.”</p><p>Martin stares at him, his face twisting in rage. “No,” he hisses, “<em>no -</em> you can’t, he’s <em>my son, mine -" </em></p><p>- but he’s already being dragged to the door. He's shouting and struggling, his eyes burning into him, furious and desperate, but Gil feels nothing. No fear, no satisfaction, not even relief as the Surgeon is pulled out of the room, and hopefully out of Gil’s life <em>forever. </em>He’s dimly aware of the man’s voice as it echoes down the corridor… but his attention is already back on Malcolm.</p><p>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">On Malcolm, stubbornly clinging to life. Please God, let him not stop being stubborn now.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>Stay with me, kid.</em>
</p><p>He thinks it over and over again; an order and a plea and a prayer all at once. It leaves no space in his mind for anything else.</p><p>It loops on repeat as he watches the medics lift Malcolm from the crimson-soaked carpet, as careful as if he were made of glass. Again and again, as they carry him gently towards the elevator. He doesn’t take his eyes off Malcolm, doesn't let that prayer go, during the ride down to the street outside; right up until the ambulance doors close around the kid and it tears away with Malcolm inside.</p><p>JT and Dani stay beside him as the bus takes off, siren shrieking, ready to help him into the next. It means they’re there to catch him when the darkness spotting the edges of his vision suddenly swells and blacks it out entirely.</p><p>For one last second Gil can hear their voices - alarmed, calling his name - as the world tunnels and fades around him.</p><p>Then he doesn’t hear anything at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Twilight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Gil’s had a headache for five days.</p><p>Apparently a skull fracture will do that to you. Well… that and the fact he spent twenty-four hours unconscious in the ICU after surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. The doctors have assured him the pain should be gone within another five days. The drowsiness, nausea, and the general feeling that he’s been grabbed by the scruff of the neck and <em>shaken</em> every time he gets to his feet will hopefully fade away too. Turns out you can bounce back pretty fast from minor brain surgery - although he’s been informed by the hospital staff (and later, with significantly more feeling, by Dani) that had he let things go untreated for much longer, there would have been no bouncing back at all.</p><p>He wonders if Martin Whitly knew he’d put a ticking clock on Gil’s life when he smashed that gun into his head. It’s hard not to think so. The man probably saw it as some kind of insurance policy… for if he didn't get to finish the job properly himself.</p><p>Tomorrow morning he’ll be discharged, with a long list of follow up appointments and medications and checks he’s meant to be do, but tonight he’s still a hospital resident… which means he can sit with the kid outside of normal visiting hours. Gil makes his way along the corridor, swearing softly under his breath when he has to pause and catch the wall for support. When he gets to Malcolm’s room - private, of course - the lights have already shifted to the artificial twilight they use in the evenings. The kid lies beneath their pale glow and just like every other time Gil's come in here, he feels a pang of shock at how still and fragile-looking he is.</p><p><em>Fragile</em>-<span class="u"><em>looking</em></span><em>, </em>Gil reminds himself, <em>but apparently tough as nails.</em> Because here he is, alive and healing, after everything fate’s thrown at him. He eases into the chair at Malcolm’s bedside, wincing as he tries to find a position that doesn’t involve putting any weight on his shoulder or side. The burns might not have ended up being the most dangerous of his injuries, but they’re sure as hell the most painful. Gil’s never thought of himself as a vain man, but so far, he’s only managed to bring himself to look at them once, by the greenish fluorescent lights of the hospital bathroom. Somehow seeing them, etched into his flesh where they’ll stay until his dying day, hurts more than anything else.</p><p>It’s strange, to get to his age and have his own body be suddenly <em>unfamiliar</em>. The scars will change, of course: right now the burns are angry and inflamed, although even with the swelling it’s clear what caused them. One day, he’ll see the scars in the mirror and he won't even think about it. He won’t recoil; won’t break out in a sweat from memories and fury and bitter mortification… but that day won’t be here for a while. When he’d finally made himself stand in front of the mirror and take in his new skin, his first thought had been of Jackie - an illogical kind of gratitude that she wouldn’t have to see him this way.</p><p>If it was up to Gil, <em>no one</em> would see him looking like this… but the injuries have already been photographed for evidence. For all he knows, they’re currently sitting on a desk in his own damn precinct, waiting to be filed. Something on a long list of <em>somethings</em> that he’s trying hard not to think about just yet…</p><p>Malcolm frowns in his sleep, a small furrow etching itself onto his forehead. Gil reaches out gently and takes his hand, murmuring reassurances, until whatever’s happening his subconscious seems to pass and his expression smooths out again.</p><p>At some point pretty soon, Gil knows, <em>both</em> of them are gonna have to open that box and start thinking about all of this.</p><p>Malcolm’s got his own set of scars to deal with. Gil saw them when the nurses came in to change his dressings; all clustered together like someone had drawn an X on the kid’s chest. Watkins’ stab wound. Francis Giraud’s ornate monogram, etched neatly beneath it. And Endicott’s bullet, just a couple of inches to the right. Gil can’t help feeling it’s just the kid’s luck that they don’t <em>quite</em> overlap… that not one of the scars helps to obliterate any of the others.</p><p>Three serial killers, stamping their mark on his body. Three attempts on his life that Malcolm only survived by inches, and that’s not including whatever went down with his own<em> father</em>. How the hell’s anyone meant to cope with that?</p><p>Malcolm sleeps on. It’s probably a blessing, that he’s getting the rest he needs, even though it feels almost <em>eerie</em> to see the kid sleeping like the dead. Five days ago, Malcolm had been closer to dead than alive - now he’s resting, as comfortably as he can given he looks like someone used him as a human punchbag. He’s got a list of injuries as long as his arm; Gil’s in better shape, but he still looks like death warmed over. Martin Whitly, as JT informed him when he asked for an update, was treated at the Claremont Infirmary for a minor cut to the palm of his hand. It was inflicted by the shard of glass he used to end Nicholas Endicott’s life.</p><p>Malcolm almost died, more than once. Martin got fixed up with a goddamn <em>band-aid</em>. That’s another<em> something</em> Gil keeps trying hard not to think about.</p><p>The headache pulses behind his eyes. He’s so tired, <em>all the time</em>. The low lights of the room and the rhythmic noises of the machines aren’t helping. But he knows he shouldn’t sleep here; the Nurse Ratched who patrols his wing will give him an earful. She’s made her opinions on Gil’s frequent trips to the other side of the hospital <em>very</em> clear, on numerous occasions.</p><p>The burn on his shoulder throbs. Just getting to his feet again seems like it would be a Herculean task. It takes almost nothing to wipe him out at the moment. He hasn’t slept this much since he was a baby.</p><p>The machines chirp softly around him. Malcolm’s chest rises and falls - a reassuring, steady rhythm.</p><p>Gil’s drifting when the glass door slides open and a nurse walks in, closing it again behind him. He looks over Malcolm’s chart while Gil watches, and then his eyes drift back over to the kid, motionless beneath the wires and blankets.</p><p>There’s no sound, but the low beeping of the machines.</p><p>The soft footsteps of the nurse.</p><p>The rhythmic <em>whirr</em> and <em>hiss</em> of the ventilator.</p><p><em>Because Malcolm can’t even </em><span class="u"><em>breathe</em></span><em> by himself</em>. In Sterling’s office, the kid hadn’t been breathing at all. His heart hadn’t been beating.</p><p>Now… the machine does it for him.</p><p>
  <em>In… and out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In… and out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In… and…</em>
</p><p>Only… the ventilator is silent, Gil realises. The whirr and hiss of air has <em>stopped.</em> Gil frowns, looking over to where the nurse is fiddling with the machinery.</p><p>“Is everything alright?” he asks. For a moment, there’s only silence. “Hey… what’s happening?”</p><p>“It’s ok,” the nurse says, with a calm smile. One of his hands rests on the still, silent ventilator… and only now does Gil see he’s not wearing the blue scrubs of the hospital staff. He’s dressed in spotless white: the uniform of the Claremont guards.</p><p>“No,” whispers Gil, but the man only smiles wider.</p><p>“It’s <em>ok</em>. Mr Endicott said you can be here. You can say goodbye.”</p><p><em>No,</em> he says again, but no sound comes out. He can’t speak and he can’t move; he’s helpless to do anything but watch. The nurse is smiling and now he sees the kid is watching him from the bed; he’s been awake all this time. Unable to call for help - locked into silence by the tube down his throat - his eyes wide and pleading….</p><p>Blood bubbles up from the bandages on his chest. More and more of it, pooling in the sheets, spilling over the sides of the bed. The machines start <em>screaming, </em>so loud Gil might shatter: the heart monitor warping into a shrieking flattened bar, and still the blood keeps on pouring. He tries to reach out, to press down over the wound and keep the blood <em>inside</em> the kid’s body but there are hands on him, holding him down. There’s too many of them, hands crawling all over his body, and he’s not strong enough to break free -</p><p>
  <em>“No -!”</em>
</p><p>Gil jerks upright in the chair so fast he almost knocks it over. It takes a second to orientate himself, his own breath panting in his ears. A dream, <em>it was just a dream, </em>he realises - there’s no blood, no nurse, and Malcolm -</p><p>Malcolm is staring at him from the bed, and for a second Gil’s heart lurches with a terrible deja vu. Then he realises the kid’s trying to speak; his voice little more than a rasp before he dissolves into a fit of coughing. He’s trying to sit up, which is clearly a terrible idea, and Gil gently presses him back against the mattress and uses the bed controls to finish the job for him, before helping him drink a few sips of water.</p><p>Because of course, Malcolm already came <em>off</em> the vent. He’s not exactly been chatty since he could talk again, but he’s been taken <em>off</em> the ventilator and he’s been breathing <em>just fine.</em></p><p>He realises the hand holding the cup is shaking, and he lowers it quickly back down to the bedside table. “Thanks,” Malcolm whispers.</p><p>“Did I wake you?” The kid shakes his head and Gil isn't remotely convinced. “How’re you feeling?”</p><p>Malcolm gives a weak shrug, the gesture somehow encompassing everything from the swathes of bandages wrapped around his torso to the fact he can barely sit upright unassisted, and Gil makes a hum of acknowledgement. He clears his throat, but his voice is still quiet and hoarse when he speaks again. “M’ fine.” There’s a pause before he adds, “sorry. I wanted… to wake you up, but…” he gestures to his throat vaguely. The kid could probably scream blue murder at the moment and you'd still struggle to hear him in the hallway. “Kind of a role reversal… with the nightmares.” His eyes flick back to Gil guiltily before they land on the ceiling. “Sorry,” he whispers again, and Gil wonders how the hell he’s managed to make one of Gil’s goddamn <em>dreams</em> his fault.</p><p>He almost says as much - but something about the kid’s tone stills him. He senses even a gentle correction might send Malcolm back into silence… and he’s said <em>so little</em> since he woke up.</p><p>At first, that’d been because he <em>couldn’t</em>. He’d crawled back into consciousness while still on the vent, and that’s how he’d been when Gil had first seen him. The<em> look </em>the kid had when he first saw Gil sitting beside him - the way his eyes had filled with tears - had stabbed Gil right in the heart. It had seemed unbearably cruel that he’d been unable to say a word… and now Gil’s beginning to worry the window when he might have said anything has closed. He’s been unsettlingly quiet since he regained the ability to talk, passively accepting the concern heaped onto him by his mother and sister, speaking when spoken to and little else. He’s been quiet around Gil, and JT, and when Dani had come to visit he’d barely been able to look her in the eye.</p><p>Gil’s almost afraid to ask what’s going on in the kid’s head right now. Although knowing Malcolm, a direct question isn’t going to get him any answers anyway…</p><p>“How about you?” Gil tries instead. “Any dreams?”</p><p>“…Not yet,” he says, in a way that somehow manages to make it sound ominous than if he’d said <em>yes, every minute, every time I close my eyes. </em>“It might be the drugs, or… I don’t know.” He looks troubled.</p><p>“Maybe… take the win, kid. It’s good, that you’re getting rest. You need it.” A muscle tics in Malcolm’s jaw, but he doesn’t say anything else. Gil lets the silence grow and stretch, keeping his face as neutral as he possibly can. This is the first time Malcolm’s strung more than two words together and if there’s any chance he wants to talk, Gil’s gonna let him take his time.</p><p>“JT said… they wanted to get my statement. Tomorrow.”</p><p>“Yeah. But only if you’re up to it. And I can help. Fill in any blanks, or anything you’d rather not… they don’t need a lot of detail. Not at this stage.” Malcolm nods once, jerkily, and falls silent again, chewing on his lip, his eyes taking on that <em>inward</em> look. Gil has no idea which of the long list of horrors they’ve been put through is currently swirling around the kid’s mind.</p><p>“You think you’re gonna be ok, talking about what happened?” he ventures, and Malcolm actually <em>laughs, </em>a disconcertingly bitter, hollow sound.</p><p>“Sure. What a trip down memory lane that’ll be.” His eyes flash to Gil’s face, quick and furtive. “Have you… have you given your statement?”</p><p>“Not yet.” He gives it to a count of ten, before he finally caves. “Look, kid… I feel like there’s something on your mind, so how about you just <em>tell me</em> what it is?”</p><p>He’s not expecting agreement. He’s expecting evasion, or denial, or one of the kid’s patented <em>I’m fine</em> smiles, so he’s taken aback when Malcolm nods and blows out a breath, as if summoning up his courage. It still takes him close to a minute to get it out.</p><p>“Gil, you… you don’t have to lie for me. I don’t want you to. You’ve done enough for me - <em>more</em> than enough, and I don’t -“</p><p>“<em>Lie</em> for you?” Gil frowns at him in confusion and finds his bewilderment mirrored back at him, as if Malcolm can’t understand why Gil doesn’t automatically know what he’s talking about.</p><p>“About Endicott,” he says. He’s looking anywhere but Gil now, hands fisted in the sheets. His voice is trembling. “When you… when you came into Sterling’s office. What you <em>saw…</em>”</p><p>It takes Gil a moment to realise what he’s talking about… and then he’s kicking himself for not knowing that of <em>course</em> it could be nothing else. After every awful, nightmarish moment in Claremont - after everything that was done to the kid - of course Malcolm’s spent his time obsessing about <em>this.</em></p><p>“What I saw,” he repeats, as neutral as he can manage, and Malcolm flinches.</p><p>“<em>Don’t.</em> Don’t pretend you didn’t,” he snaps, although the effect is undermined by the tears rushing to fill his eyes. “I was going to <em>kill</em> him. I had the knife, I was… I was <em>about </em>to do it<em>…</em>”</p><p>“Were you?” He asks the question gently, sincerely, and Malcolm’s eyes finally return to meet his. He looks almost <em>betrayed </em>by the question, as thrown by Gil’s response as Gil was only a few moments earlier.</p><p>“You were <em>there</em>,” he whispers. “You know… You know what you saw.”</p><p>“I do,” Gil agrees. “I saw you - being held hostage by two serial killers -"</p><p>“I was <em>armed</em> -"</p><p>“Yeah. You had the knife. I could see that. I could maybe even see you <em>thinking</em> about it. I didn’t see you do it. I don’t know how long you stood there kid… how long you’d <em>been</em> standing there before I arrived - but it was more than enough time to stab the guy if you wanted to do it. And I didn’t see you make a move.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him. His expression is such a painful blend of shame and hope that it <em>hurts…</em> but Gil keeps his expression calm. He just looks at him and tries to let the kid <em>see</em> that he’s not lying; that he’s not holding anything back.</p><p>“I don’t - I don’t know,” Malcolm whispers finally. “I don’t know… what I would have done. When… when Dr Whitly <em>told me</em> to do it,” - he sucks in a breath and Gil feels a flash of rage at this confirmation of Martin’s role in proceedings - “at first… I <em>knew</em> I wasn’t going to. I said no… but then… <em>he kept talking.</em> Endicott.” Malcolm scrubs his cheek with the hand not currently stuck full of needles, swallowing back tears. “I thought, back at Claremont - I thought they killed you - but I didn’t <em>know. </em>And when the lights came on, I hoped… JT and Dani might get to you in time. Then Endicott… showed me the photo.”</p><p>For a second, Gil can only think of the polaroids taken by the cops of his own injuries - which <em>makes no sense </em>because of course that happened later, after it was all over - not to mention the fact that Bright’s never gonna find out about those scars if Gil can help it. “Photo?” he echos, bewildered, and <em>as he says it</em> he suddenly realises what the kid is talking about.</p><p>The guard, standing over him with his phone. The click of the camera while he lay there, like something on display; a trophy for Endicott to review at his leisure. For a second Gil feels a stab of mortification so intense that he can’t focus on anything else, swallowed whole by shame and fury. “He… he showed you that?”</p><p>Malcolm nods. He looks stricken just remembering it, his eyes unfocussed, his mind back in that office. “He said… you were dead. But that <em>we</em> - me and Endicott - we could work together. That we could just <em>carry on</em> and I… I wanted to kill him. When he said that, I wanted to do it. And I don’t know, what I would have done - if you hadn’t…”</p><p>Gil blows out a breath, trying to shove the mess of recollections back down where they came from. Trying not to think about the Surgeon, urging Malcolm on; Endicott, taunting him with that photo… or the fact that the kid’s lying here, held together by stitches and tape, somehow thinking <em>he’s</em> the villain.</p><p>“That man… was a monster,” Gil manages. He leans forward, making his voice as steady as he can, waiting until Malcolm is looking him in the eye before he speaks. “No one could blame you… for <em>whatever</em> you were feeling, kid. But <em>I know what I saw.</em> And I didn’t see you lay a finger on anyone.” He reaches out and grips Malcolm’s hand. “You’re nothing like <em>him</em>, Bright. Everything you did at back Claremont… it only proves that.”</p><p>The kid’s face crumples, silent tears spilling down his cheeks… but he doesn’t argue, he doesn’t shake his head, and Gil figures that’s the best he can hope for right now. He just clutches Gil blindly while he buries his face in his other hand and his shoulders shake with sobs.</p><p>It takes a while, before Malcolm eventually stills. Then he sniffs and wipes his eyes, glancing back up at Gil, his expression hovering somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment. Gil’s expecting him to say something self-deprecating, or maybe even apologise again, so he’s taken aback when instead Malcolm offers up a fragile, fleeting smile. “Thanks, Gil,” he mumbles. “M’glad… you’re ok. I don’t know what I would’ve done... if..."</p><p>“Hey - you and me both,” says Gil, before Malcolm can get lost in that thought. “But we made it, right? We're still here.”</p><p>Malcolm gives a watery chuckle. “Right,” he manages, with a nod. “Still here.”</p><p>“… I should let you sleep,” decides Gil. He’s already woken the kid up from his much needed rest - not that he can find it in himself to regret it. Malcolm’s somehow contriving to look even more pale and exhausted than when Gil first came in here - but nonetheless there’s a <em>lightness</em> about him that wasn’t there before. He’s not gonna fool himself into thinking they’ve even scratched the surface of everything that went on in that hellhole - not to mention everything that went on between Bright and his father - but it’s impossible not to feel some of the heaviness that’s been weighing on Gil dissipate too, when he sees a little of the light back in the kid’s eyes.</p><p>Malcolm yawns on cue, sinking back limply against the pillows. “I guess. I’ve never slept this much in my life,” he says, looking vaguely bemused by his newfound ability. “But… maybe I could sleep…?” He trails off, delivering another jaw-cracking yawn and then looking taken aback, while Gil sets the bed whirring back to horizontal. “How about you?" Malcolm asks. "You gonna… get some rest?”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>Malcolm hums sleepily. His eyes are already drifting closed. “Cos that chair <em>cannot</em>… be comfortable.”</p><p>“You got that right.”</p><p>“Y’don’t have to stay,” Malcolm murmurs. “Y'should… head back… t’your room.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.” He takes Malcolm’s hand again where his fingers are curled loosely against the sheets. “In a while,” he says softly. Within seconds, the kid’s expression has smoothed out in sleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. <em>In and out.</em> A slow, reassuring rhythm.</p><p>In a while, he’ll go, Gil tells himself<em>.</em> But for now, he’ll stay a little longer.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Epilogue: One Day (i)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the wait with this update! I really struggled with this final chapter... partly because I realised halfway through writing it that it was actually *two* chapters 😂  </p><p>Anyway - both are now written and part two will be up next week. Hope you enjoy! 💜</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><em>Shoes</em>, thinks Malcolm, gripping the mattress savagely to stop himself from toppling off the edge of the bed, <em>should </em><span class="u"><em>not</em></span><em> be this difficult</em>.</p><p>He finally manages to toe on the second shoe and breathes through the burn of pain; trying not to think about how long it’s going to be before he can get back into his yoga practise. How difficult it is to accomplish even the smallest of tasks without putting strain on his stitched-together abdominal muscles.<em> It doesn’t matter.</em> However painful, however slow-going, he’s still adamant about checking himself out of the hospital (and is already trying not to think about the incoming wave of furious calls from his mother he’ll be getting the moment she works out what’s happened).</p><p>He’s done this before, after all. After Watkins, he’d been just fine looking after himself and he’d been down a hand then as well. Admittedly, he’d gotten off relatively lightly with Watkins, all things considered. No organs damaged, no muscles shredded, no heart failure or major surgery to recover from, and no accompanying set of bone-deep bruises that make pretty much every kind of movement horribly painful…</p><p>But still. Staying in hospital any longer <em>is not an option</em>. So here he goes.</p><p>He sucks in another deep breath before he wrangles himself into a zippered hoodie (from the getaway bag he’d practically had to <em>beg</em> Ainsley to smuggle in for him) and then seriously contemplates lying down for maybe the next thirty or forty years. His hands are trembling - not from his usual tremor, but from exhaustion. Just getting dressed has left him feeling like his muscles have been replaced with jello, and he still has to make it down to the taxi, back to his apartment. <em>Maybe this isn’t going to be quite as simple as he’d thought…</em></p><p>Before he can dwell on that thought, his doctor walks in, with the same air of vexation she’s worn since Malcolm told her he was leaving. He does his best to pay attention as she runs over the importance of at-home assistance and recovery exercises he should be doing, wishing he’d thought to lean back against the bed-head before she started talking. He doesn’t dare make the move now. Her advice has firmly been to give things at least a couple of more days before discharging himself - he doesn’t want to hand her any new ammunition -</p><p>“Mr Bright?”</p><p>Malcolm blinks. He’s been concentrating so hard on not visibly wilting during her speech, he’s zoned out of the actual <em>listening</em> part. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Sounds good. Thank you.”</p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “<em>Thank me</em> by not turning up in my ER again in the next week because you’ve popped your stitches. You need to respect that you’re going to have a lot of physical limitations for the next few weeks. It’s important not to take on too much, too soon.”</p><p>“Right,” he says. He gives her the most convincing smile he can summon. “Limitations - absolutely. Got it.”</p><p>She looks distinctly unimpressed. “Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any follow up questions,” she concludes, with a final scan over him. “I’ll let your friend know you’re ready to head out.”</p><p>Malcolm frowns. “I, uh - I’m actually getting a cab -“</p><p>“Take care of yourself, Mr Bright.” She marches off, high heels clacking away down the corridor -</p><p>- and a figure appears in the doorway, leaning her weight on a wheelchair. Malcolm gapes at her.</p><p>“Dani?!”</p><p>“Surprise.”</p><p>“… <em>Ainsley</em>,” he mutters darkly. And after he’d made her <em>promise </em>that she wouldn’t rat him out.</p><p>“Sure. Or, you know, the three<em> detectives </em>who’ve been visiting you since you got admitted figured out you’d discharge yourself at the earliest opportunity… but go with whichever theory you prefer.” She parks the chair by the door and edges inside hesitantly, as if she’s not entirely sure she’s welcome. “You look… better,” she says, and Malcolm’s immediately self-conscious; he grips his hands together in his lap in an attempt to hide their trembling. He feels exposed, suddenly,<em> ambushed, </em>a flush burning its way up onto his face. He’s barely said two words to Dani, not since -</p><p><em>No. </em>He swallows, wrestling back the memory and the wave of nausea it brings with it. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>There’s a flash of hurt in her eyes. Malcolm hurries to correct himself. “Sorry. Clearly, I can figure out what you're doing here. I just… I wasn’t expecting to see you.”</p><p>She shrugs, the gesture too casual to actually be convincing. “I… figured you might need a ride. I didn’t want to be the one to break our tradition.” When he looks at her in bewilderment, she adds, “being your lift home from the hospital?”</p><p>The rush of warmth he feels at her words almost - <em>almost</em> - unravels the knot in his gut about what’s being left<em> unsaid. </em>Because they haven't really talked, not since he woke up here. He knows at some point, they’ll have to... and it will be excruciating. <em>She already knew you were messed up, </em>murmurs the voice in his head, and that was <em>before</em> she’d seen him drugged and held hostage by his own father. <em>Imagine</em><em> what she thinks of you now.</em></p><p>“I’m not sure <em>once</em> is enough to count as a tradition,” he manages. “But… thank you. You really didn’t have to come pick me up.”</p><p>"Well, I wanted to see you. We’ve missed you, at the precinct.” He looks up at her in surprise, but her gaze has already landed on his bag. “This your stuff? You need to pack up anything else?”</p><p>“No, uh… that’s everything.”</p><p>“Ok, then.” She grabs the wheelchair, heading over to him… and <em>this</em> is not the undercover getaway Malcolm had in mind. His plan was to sneak away <em>by himself</em>; to hide out in his loft <em>away</em> from others’ eyes. <em>Not</em> <em>forever, </em>he tells himself: <em>at </em><span class="u"><em>some</em></span><em> point, one day soon, he’ll rejoin his team… </em>when whatever’s wrong with him is fixed. But until then, he needs a little time, to get a better handle on himself. A little space, so no one will see just how broken he is right now.</p><p>He glances up at her, his hesitancy written all over his face. She raises an eyebrow. “So… you coming?”</p><p>Malcolm bites his lip. Dani’s come here for <em>him -</em> when it would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to avoid him entirely - and he has missed her. He’s missed that teasing look in her eyes; he's missed feeling anything other than shame and guilt when she looks at him. Part of him recoils from the idea of her seeing him like this, but… maybe the two of them can just <em>pretend </em>things are ok, for a while. Surely he can hold it together for as long as it takes to get to his front door…</p><p>He takes a deep breath. “Ok fine, but… can we lose the wheelchair? I’m pretty sure I can make it to the car park.”</p><p>Dani raises her hands. “Hospital policy, Bright. I don’t make the rules.” He grimaces. “C’mon - hop in. I promise not to crash you into a wall.”</p><p>He gives her a <em>look,</em> then slowly eases himself into the chair. He can’t quite bury the gasp of pain that comes with the movement and she moves quickly round beside him, her brow creased in concern. “Bright? You good?”</p><p>He breathes through the pain for a few more seconds before he nods. “Yeah… I’m good. I, uh…” He not sure <em>why</em> it’s so difficult to say. Why just being around her makes him feel so exposed... but it’s not <em>her</em> fault he’s a mess, so he forces himself to meet her eyes. “I missed you too, Dani,” he finishes quietly, and something relaxes in his chest at the warm, surprised look that flickers over her face. She straightens up.</p><p>“Alright then,” she says breezily, grabbing the handles of the chair and steering towards the corridor. “Let’s get out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The sun on his face might be the best thing he’s felt in <em>months.</em> Just being outside, in the fresh air and natural light, feels like coming out of a long dark tunnel: a tunnel that began back in the endless night of Claremont and extended on through the goldfish bowl of the hospital. Dani actually <em>grins</em> at the look on his face as they emerge outside… and that’s how they end up sitting out at the end of the parking lot for a half hour, Malcolm soaking up the sunshine while Dani perches on the bonnet of her car, drinking appalling vending machine coffee.</p><p>The traffic is terrible by the time they set off. Dani mutters curses at every set of traffic lights, but Malcolm notices that even when there is a rare opportunity to pick up speed, she’s as slow and careful as she can get away with. He can’t help being grateful for it. The bruises on his back twinge with every stop and start of the engine… but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Compared to the last time he was on the road -</p><p>
  <em>- his father looks at him from the driver’s seat, eyes alight with excitement -</em>
</p><p><span class="u"><em>No</em></span><em>.</em> Malcolm forces the memory ruthlessly back down, clenching his trembling hands on his knees. <em>He can’t afford to think about that... </em>especially here, in front of Dani. But it’s exhausting, to keep pushing it all back down. He feels like he's set on a permanent hair trigger at the moment, only ever seconds away from a flashback that might swallow him whole. It started the moment he woke up in the hospital, laid out beneath bright lights. Silenced by the tube down his throat - unable to even command the flow of air into his lungs, each breath dictated and bestowed by the machine whirring softly beside him. It had sent him right back to his father’s cell, to Ginger kneeling across his chest. It had all merged into one: the white light, the ache in his chest, the uncontrollable struggle for air.</p><p>The reality of the ventilator would have been awful enough on its own… but like so many things now, it came with a <em>shadow</em>. A memory from that night overlaying it, wrapping around it, creeping in through the sensory echoes he finds in a touch, the brush of a hand, the ache of an old wound. When the nurse changed the dressings on his injuries and accidentally let her fingers ghost over his stomach… he hadn’t thought of the blonde man’s smile, his wandering hands<em> once</em>, and all of a sudden he hadn’t been able to think of <em>anything</em> else<em>.</em> He’d woken up one time with his mother running her fingers through his hair and then it had been Butcher instead, smiling that delighted, blood-streaked smile.</p><p><em>It won’t be forever</em>, Malcolm reminds himself. He’ll get better at handling it, at <em>hiding</em> it, and one day he’ll stop jumping at shadows; one day he won’t find himself thrown back to that night with every unexpected touch. He just has to <em>not</em> think about all the days in between - of all that’s required of him to get from <em>now</em> to <em>then -</em> because that makes him want to blink out of existence entirely.</p><p>He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. At some point during his reverie, he’s become conscious of the seatbelt across his chest, the strap cutting awkwardly against his collarbone. It’s a <em>barely there </em>feeling, something he hasn’t noticed for the entire drive so far. Only now he’s aware of it, he can’t seem to think about anything else…</p><p><em>Don’t</em>. He wiggles slightly, trying to lose track of that light pressure ghosting over his chest. <em>It’s fine. </em><span class="u"><em>He’s</em></span><em> fine. It’s -</em></p><p>Dani swears under her breath and brakes a little harder than usual. The belt pulls tight - his heart slams against his ribs -</p><p>- <em>his father’s arm wraps around his chest, knife digging into his throat -</em></p><p>-<em> no no no - </em>Malcolm twitches, squeezing his eyes closed. Dani’s murmuring an apology beside him and he tries to reply, to say it’s fine - but she’s fading, everything outside his body is, as he’s consumed by the phantom feel of that arm crushing around him, dragging him backwards - of his father’s breath, whispering across his ear -</p><p>His fingers are fumbling with the seatbelt release before he can stop himself. His pulse is thundering in his ears and his fingers are shaking, slick with sweat; it takes him several tries to get free. The sense of relief that comes when the belt slides back is <em>ludicrous</em> - but he can finally breathe again and Malcolm sucks in deep breath after deep breath, as the memory fades and the present trickles back in... until he realises the car isn’t moving anymore.</p><p>“ - talk to me. Bright, you with me? Bright?”</p><p>They’ve pulled over, he realises. They’re parked, probably illegally, on a street not far from his apartment, and Dani is beside him, wide-eyed with concern. “I’m fine,” he croaks.</p><p>“Do you need to get out?” She’s poised to open the door, and he realises that his fumbling with the seatbelt probably made her think he was trying to escape the car. “Or… are you gonna puke?”</p><p>“No. No, I’m ok. I, uh… I feel better now,” Malcolm adds, because there’s no point pretending he didn’t just freak out while she was sitting about three inches away from him. Dani nods slowly, but makes no move to start the car again. Instead she blows out a breath and slumps back in the seat beside him.</p><p>“You wanna talk about it?” she offers.</p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>She nods again. He’s relieved when he realises she isn’t going to push.</p><p>They sit in silence for a few minutes. Malcolm slowly re-orients himself; grounding himself in the buzz of traffic outside, the smell of Dani’s shampoo. Part of him is fervently grateful that he isn’t in a cab with some total stranger, because he’s not sure he’d be able to calm himself down… but all the same, <em>this </em>is exactly what he was afraid of. Mortification is starting to creep in now the terror is fading - because how the hell is he going to convince everyone that he’s fine if he acts like a total mess?</p><p>He risks a glance over at Dani. After everything she saw at Claremont, he’s braced for pity on her face… or masked horror at the fact he’s basically having night terrors <em>while conscious…</em> but it’s not there. She tilts her head, lips pursed in a sympathetic grimace. “You ok? I’m guessing your stitches aren’t thanking you for that.”</p><p>Malcolm’s hand slides to his chest automatically. He’d barely noticed the burn, under the panic threatening to swallow him. “I’ve… felt better.” She gives him a <em>you don’t say </em>look, but before she can reply her phone buzzes and she checks the screen.</p><p>“Gil. Wondering if I’ve gotten you home yet.” She looks over to him, amused. “Honestly, I’m impressed he held out this long.”</p><p>He smiles weakly. “I suppose I should be grateful my mother’s not texting you.”</p><p>“That’s probably still on the cards.” She fires off a quick response and tucks the phone back into her pocket. “How you feeling? You good to go?”</p><p>He nods, both relieved and taken aback by the way she seems to be taking all this in her stride… feeling strangely like he’s <em>gotten away with something </em>as she turns the key in the ignition. “You know what… seeing as you’re recuperating, you can pick the station.” She waves a hand towards the radio magnanimously. “Your choice, for the rest of the journey.”</p><p>Malcolm frowns. “Aren’t we like… three minutes from my apartment?”</p><p>“Huh. So we are,” she says, with only a hint of smugness. “Guess you’d better pick fast,”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><em>Fast</em> is not a thing Malcolm does so well anymore. Walking is slow and painful, but he’s been practising in his hospital room and insists that he’s fine getting inside on his own. He’s made it half way from the curb before he even notices JT, waiting beside his front door. He comes to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk in surprise.</p><p>“Watch it!” Dani snaps at the guy who almost ploughs into them. She tugs him forward theremaining few steps to where JT leans against the wall, arms folded in front of him.</p><p>“Hey,” says Malcolm, bewildered. JT just nods at him, as if he was always gonna be here, as Dani unlocks the door, hoisting his hospital bag over her shoulder.</p><p>“You bring lunch?” JT hands her a carrier bag; Dani claps him on the shoulder and disappears upstairs, leaving Malcolm blinking after her.</p><p>“Uh… Did I miss something?”</p><p>“Don’t worry - I got you lunch as well. You can <em>not eat it</em> like usual.” JT holds the front door open, ushering him inside. Malcolm’s just about to ask exactly <em>why</em> JT is waiting outside his apartment, when his eyes fall on the flight of the stairs stretching up ahead of him. His words dry up as his heart sinks.<em> Oh crap.</em></p><p>JT comes to stand beside him, gazing up at the stairwell reflectively. “How is it you’re the only rich guy in New York who lives in a building <em>without</em> an elevator?”</p><p>“Would you believe… I’m asking myself that very question?” Malcolm had always known that he’d have to drag himself upstairs to get home, but in his head it hadn’t seemed like such a daunting task. The burn in his chest, growing fiercer with every minute, hadn’t seemed like such an obstacle back from his hospital bed… quite honestly, logistics had come second place to simply <em>getting out</em>.</p><p>He sees the flaw in that way of thinking, now.</p><p>“So,” says JT. “How d’you wanna do this?”</p><p>Malcolm swallows. “I think… slowly.”</p><p>He has to bite his tongue to stop himself suggesting JT goes on ahead. His pride instinctively rebels at the idea of someone watching just how painful this is going to be… but it would be pointless. He already knows there’s no chance JT would actually leave him to it. He braces himself against the wall and takes the first step.</p><p>By the fourth, his muscles are trembling. Each slight upward motion sends a new stab of pain through his chest and back; each push of his weight sapping what little strength he has. He’s about to take the fifth when JT mutters “dude,” and comes to stand beside him. Malcolm can’t stop tensing up the second his arm lands across his shoulders - but JT either senses it or was planning on adjusting his grip anyway, because a moment later his arm slides lower, bracing him gently around his back. “This ok?”</p><p>Malcolm manages a nod. He doesn’t trust his voice not to shake if he says anything out loud. With JT’s help, he makes it through steps five to twelve, agonising slowly.</p><p>“Let’s take a break,” says JT firmly, when he senses Malcolm about to go for thirteen. “Not like we’re getting points for speed, here.” He helps him take a seat on the step and Malcolm ducks his head, trying to get his breathing under control, sweaty and exhausted and <em>only just half way</em>. He’d pay a small fortune for this to be over with already; to be firmly ensconced in his apartment and not a trembling wreck stuck in the stairwell. JT’s voice floats towards him, laced with just enough concern to let Malcolm know that he looks as bad as he feels. “You due some meds? Painkillers or anything?”</p><p>Malcolm flaps a hand weakly. “I’d rather wait… til we make it upstairs.” After a couple more minutes he glances up to see the other man sitting a couple of steps below him, studying the wall. “Thanks. For… the help.” He’s expecting JT to look as embarrassed and uncomfortable as Malcolm is, but to his surprise he meets his gaze without hesitation. As if this is no big deal.</p><p>“It’s no problem, man.”</p><p>“Still. I appreciate it. You… and Dani, and Gil… Visiting me at the hospital, and everything...”</p><p>“Gil said he’d be over later, by the way.” Malcolm nods. Some of his unhappiness must show on his face because JT frowns. “You don’t wanna see him?”</p><p>“No, it’s not that. It’s just… he’s done so much already. He doesn’t have to keep checking in on me.”</p><p>JT chuckles. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s doing that stuff because he wants to. Plus - you know. You did kind of take a bullet for him.”</p><p>Malcolm stares at him, speechless. <em>Is that what JT thinks?! </em>That he performed some kind of<em> heroic save</em>, rather than dragging Gil into this mess in the first place? Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop them, at just how wretchedly <em>wrong</em> that idea is… meaning he senses, rather than sees, JT shifting awkwardly on the stairs below him. “Hey… I didn’t, uh… We don’t have to talk about that stuff. Sorry.”</p><p>Malcolm scrubs his face. Pushes it all back down. “It’s not your fault,” he mumbles. “I’m fine. Honestly.” And JT's clearly unconvinced, but happily he’s as willing to leave the topic behind as Malcolm is.</p><p>“You uh... you ready to go again?”</p><p><em>No. </em>Malcolm glances upwards, at the long row of stairs stretching ahead. A world of pain between him and his couch.</p><p>“I actually like it here,” he announces. “It’s underrated, sitting in stairwells.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” says JT flatly.</p><p>“We could do the next ten steps tomorrow,” he suggests, even as he reluctantly takes JT’s proffered hand, levering himself to his feet. “I’ll… meet you here. Same time… same step…”</p><p>JT’s supporting even more of his weight this time round. They slowly make it up five more stairs before Malcolm grits out “<em>stop.</em>” JT does, easily holding him upright as he pants and trembles.</p><p>“You wanna sit?”</p><p>“No. Just… need… a minute.” If he sits down again now, he’ll never be able to make himself get up. He waits for the floor to stop swirling below him. “You must think… I’m an idiot,” he gasps.</p><p>“Cos you’re <em>talking</em> instead of<em> breathing</em>?” asks JT pointedly.</p><p>“Thinking… I could do this… by myself,” says Malcolm bitterly. He’d be <em>crawling</em> up the stairs on his belly by now it wasn’t for JT, and the fact his team saw this coming and he didn’t only makes him feel even <em>more </em>of an idiot, cursing his stupid plan and his stupid body and the stupid, screaming hole in his chest that’s making him want to <em>just pass out already</em> to escape the pain of it.</p><p>“Seriously, Bright. Less talking, more breathing.” The arm around him adjusts its grip, practically lifting him up the next stair and then steadying him. Again and again, until Malcolm’s somehow looking at his own door. He grabs JT’s wrist before he can push it open; much as Malcolm wants nothing more than to sink down onto his couch, he’d rather not look like he’s just run a marathon in front of Dani, who must be waiting for them inside.</p><p>“Wait.” He takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself while JT waits obligingly. They come easier now that he knows the worst of the struggle is behind him. “Ok,” he manages, after a minute. “Ready.” But JT doesn’t move right away.</p><p>“You’re right.” Malcolm looks at him in confusion. “I think you’re an idiot, if you thought climbing twenty-five stairs by yourself with a gunshot wound was a good idea. Doesn’t mean I don’t get it.” JT shrugs. “I understand wanting to deal with this kind of stuff by yourself. But... you’re part of a team. That means having people beside you while you do it.”</p><p>And before Malcolm can work out an answer to that, the door’s swinging open.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Epilogue: One Day (ii)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>LAST CHAPTER! We made it!</p><p>This story turned into WAY more of a beast than I imagined when I started out, so thank you all for sticking with it! And thanks so much to everyone who's left comments as we go - I love reading them. I hope y'all enjoy this final chapter  💜</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Malcolm only feels sixty per cent terrible. <em>The power of pharmacology, </em>he reflects dreamily.</p><p>JT and Dani had apparently planned for a lunch date in his apartment. He’s presented with soup (he manages about three spoonfuls), followed by a chaser of drugs that really shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach, but he’s hurting too much to care. Within minutes he’s slumped bonelessly on the couch (he refused the bed, on the grounds that he’s only just escaped one), deliciously numb from his meds, soaking up the warm, familiar shapes of his home like a cat in a sunbeam.</p><p>“I’m just saying, I don’t get it,” says Dani, from around a mouthful of sandwich. “Basketball cards, sure. Comic books. Cars, even, if you can afford it. But <em>swords</em>? You just wanna arm any burglar who breaks into your apartment?”</p><p>“How ‘bout this one?” calls JT, tapping on the glass over his weapons collection. Malcolm squints at it from the fog he’s currently floating in.</p><p>“<em>That</em>… is a seventeenth century katana,” he says proudly. “And the axe below is Norse. Only two in the country.” JT swivels round, suitably impressed - and is completely taken aback as something flutters down from the ceiling.</p><p>“The hell?!”</p><p>“Sunshine!” The drugs must be loosening him up, because Malcolm can <em>feel </em>himself beaming. He watches happily as Sunshine lands on the arm of the couch and twitters at him, cocking her head from side to side.</p><p>“You have a <em>parakeet</em>?”</p><p>“Don’t make it weird,” deadpans Dani. “I let her out when I came in. She seemed kinda twitchy.”</p><p>“Hey, Sunshine… did you miss me?” She chirrups excitedly, hopping up and down on the leather before she flutters off towards the kitchen, tiny feet scrabbling over the breakfast bar. For the first time, Malcolm notices the lavish floral arrangement sitting on the counter. He squints at it in confusion.</p><p>“The flowers are from Edrisa,” volunteers Dani. “There’s also a note from your mom. It’s mainly threats about eating all the food in the fridge. You have a <em>ridiculous</em> amount of food in your fridge.”Before Malcolm can give that the eye roll it deserves, there’s the sound of a key in a lock. A second later, Gil’s strolling into his apartment, and he’s left wondering if there’s <em>anybody </em>in his life who didn’t somehow divine his plan to run away from the hospital.</p><p>“Hey, kid.”</p><p>Malcolm looks between the three detectives scattered around his apartment. “Are the criminals of New York just getting a free pass today?”</p><p>Gil chuckles. “I’m on leave for another week, remember? These two, on the other hand…”</p><p>“We were just heading back to the precinct,” says Dani smoothly.</p><p>“Do you want to take some of the food?” Malcolm asks hopefully. She smirks at him and grabs her bag instead.</p><p>“Catch you later, Bright.”</p><p>“Nice collection,” adds JT as he heads after her. “<em>Much</em> cooler than baseball cards,” and then they’re both tramping down his stairwell. It’s only when he hears the door slam as they reach the bottom that Malcolm realises he hasn’t properly thanked either of them for getting him back here in one piece. <em>They co-ordinated</em>, he realises, far, <em>far</em> slower than he should be, thanks to the drugs coursing through his system. <em>His team.</em> The idea brings a tangle of feelings he’s too hazy to process: happiness and guilt and gratitude and something hot, like anger.</p><p>Gil takes a seat in the armchair, eyeing the barely-touched portion of soup on the table. “How you feeling? Did you manage to eat anything?”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Malcolm says. It’s barely even a lie. He <em>tried</em> to eat. Admittedly if he’d tried harder, he maybe wouldn’t be feeling quite so groggy from those pain pills, but Gil doesn’t need to know that. “I’m fine,” he says, by way of deflection, ignoring Gil’s look of scepticism. “I don’t need <em>looking after.”</em> He waves a hand vaguely, “and don’t think I don’t know what all<em> this </em>is.”</p><p>Gil raises an eyebrow. “All this?”</p><p>“JT and Dani. You.”</p><p>“You mean your team trying to support you?”</p><p>“What was the plan?” Malcolm challenges. “‘Don’t leave him alone for a minute, so he can’t think about…’” he trails off, realising he’s not quite ready for where that sentence was headed. He steers back to safer ground. “They think I can’t handle things by myself?”</p><p>“They care about you, Bright,” Gil says, far too calm, far too reasonable. “You can’t blame them for wanting to help. And you don’t have to be alone to think about what happened. It might help to talk about it with someone.” Malcolm snorts. He fiddles with the edge of a cushion.</p><p>“Gil… they think I’m screwed up enough. They don’t need to see more proof of that.”</p><p>“You’re selling them <em>and</em> you short, if that’s what you think,” says Gil firmly. “No one’s expecting you to just bounce back from something like this. JT and Dani have been around long enough to understand that. But it doesn’t have to be any of us, Bright. Just… someone.”</p><p>He sighs. “I know how it works, Gil. I've been in therapy since I was ten.”</p><p>“There you go, then,” says Gil equably. “You know if you were a cop and not a consultant, you’d have been hauled in for it already? It would be mandatory, after this kind of incident in the field.” He hesitates for a second, before he offers up: “I’ve got my first session on Monday.”</p><p>Malcolm blinks, taken aback. “<em>You’re</em> doing therapy?”</p><p>Gil shrugs. “NYPD policy.” He clocks Malcolm’s surprised expression and narrows his eyes. “Kid, I’ve been in the job since you were in diapers. Do you really think this is the first time I’ve had to be cleared by a therapist for work?”</p><p>“… No?” lies Malcom, because honestly, he’s never imagined Gil in therapy. <em>Ever</em>. He’s so used to being the screwed up member of the team, he’d never considered the idea of the others needing help to cope with things. Gil gives him a look of fond vexation. “Do you… Does it help?”</p><p>“It’s not… my kind of thing,” Gil admits. “But, afterwards - yeah. I guess. I’d get out of it if I could… but I can’t. And I’d be a fool if I didn’t know that’s for the best.”</p><p>“Huh.” Malcolm turns that over a few times in his mind. “So, what you’re saying is… every time you’ve gone on to <em>me</em> about going to therapy… you were being a total hypocrite?”</p><p>“Yup,” says Gil cheerfully, reaching for the remote and flipping to some sports channel Malcolm’s never used in the entire time he’s owned his TV. “Now settle in. We should be just in time for the first pitch.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm doesn't remember falling asleep. There’s a blanket draped over him, he realises fuzzily, and it’s dark outside. He thinks back, remembering the soothing buzz of the television… Gil’s muttered commentary… the painkillers pulling him deeper and deeper under…</p><p>It’s nice, to find himself drifting into consciousness rather than snapping back screaming. The TV is quiet now. The soup carton has been cleared off the coffee table in front of him, replaced with his phone and the various pill bottles they’d loaded him up with back at the hospital. Gil’s no longer sitting beside him in the armchair, but Malcolm knows without even checking that he won’t be too far away. It’s embarrassing, how reassuring that knowledge is; especially after his complaining earlier.</p><p>He’s feels bad, pushing at the people trying to help him<em>, </em>but he can’t seem to help it. His emotions don’t make sense, so neither does he.</p><p>Very slowly, he levers himself into a sitting position and takes in the rest of his apartment. It’s dim in the lamplight. As predicted, Gil is at the breakfast bar, his back to Malcolm, quietly clearing away the detritus from lunch. Sunshine is back in her cage, sleeping, her head tucked into her wing. He relaxes back against the cushions, letting the quiet bustle from the kitchen wash over him. Stares up at the shadowy ceiling and lets his mind drift, too mellow and wrung out to stop it… even though he should know by now that it won’t take him anywhere he wants to go…</p><p>The memory rises up, unbidden, in his mind. Lying like this… in Sterling’s office. He’d known then, that he must be dying. There’d been no other way to explain the pain.</p><p>He can remember the terror, and the pure, piercing pain of the knife. And he can remember what he’d thought, before the blackness swallowed him…</p><p>… <em>is this how they felt?</em></p><p>Those cool eyes looking down at him. The light glinting off the blade. Feeling it cut into him, deeper and deeper, until there wasn’t anything else: just the touch of the knife, the line of agony it left behind…</p><p>Only it wasn’t the same. Of <em>course</em> it wasn’t; because his father had been trying to save him. Twenty three people he’d carved into and Malcolm gets to live, because those same steady hands had been used to grant him breath instead of taking it away. The Surgeon’s never seemed like more of a monster to him, only now he’s the monster who <em>saved his life…</em> and Malcolm would peel his own skin off if he could because the idea makes him want to <em>scream. </em>It makes him want to rip open his stitches, makes him feel like he can’t <em>breathe —</em></p><p>And suddenly he can't. <em>He can’t breathe.</em> It feels like the knife is scoring down his chest again; his lungs seized up from the agony. His father’s face swims in front of him, his scarlet hands, and he’s so cold, so cold that he’s <em>freezing…</em></p><p><em>… and Gil’s there too, </em> <span class="u"><em>beside</em></span><em> his father, and Malcolm wants to tell him to run - but he </em> <em>can’t</em> <em> - he can't speak, he can’t breathe - he’s </em> <span class="u"><em>dying</em></span> <em> -</em></p><p><em>“No,”</em> he gasps, and his hands claw at his chest. He stumbles upright, trying to escape it, as if he can physically wrench himself out of it, and knocks into the coffee table. Bottles of pills tumble to the floor, scattering everywhere. A fierce rip of pain tears through his stitches, the floor lurching below him and he trips, doubling over before his feet are steady beneath him -</p><p>Someone catches him, stopping him from falling. He’s trying to wrench away before his brain can process that not toppling to the floor is a <em>good thing</em> - and then he’s being pushed back down onto the couch, a hand squeezing the nape of his neck.</p><p>“Malcolm?! Malcolm, look at me -“</p><p>“Gil,” he gasps. He forces his eyes open again, to see that worried face blurring in front of him.</p><p>“That’s right, kid. I got you. Just take some deep breaths…”</p><p>Malcolm closes his eyes again: the room is spinning. He nods wordlessly and keeps on breathing, in and out - frantically trying to suck in enough air for his heart to stop thundering inside him. <em>Breathe, and breathe, and breathe…</em> until the reality of his apartment reasserts itself around him. He clutches his chest, checking if the stitches have ripped or if it just <em>feels </em>like they have, and sags in relief when he realises they’re all in tact. It would be the final, humiliating straw to have to return to the hospital <em>already</em> to get stitched back up.</p><p>“Kid?”</p><p>“M’ok,” he mutters. He pulls back, suddenly embarrassed, from Gil’s hand on his shoulder. He clenches his hand to hide the tremors. “Sorry. Flashback.”</p><p>Gil frowns. “You don’t have to apologise. That been happening a lot?”</p><p>Malcolm shrugs. He keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, willing them to stop trembling. Gil hesitates where he’s crouched down in front of him before he finally gets to his feet, and Malcolm can hear the wince he can’t quite bury. He knows Gil has more injuries than he’s told him about, from whatever happened after his father dragged him away. The fact he’s probably aggravated them further by helping him now only makes the guilt more choking.</p><p>“Let me grab you some water,” Gil mutters. He’s back a moment later, placing a glass down on the table in front of him, and Malcolm can’t even bring himself to look at him.</p><p>“Thanks,” he whispers. He suddenly can’t bear it that Gil has to be here, taking care of him because Malcolm can’t even take care of himself, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t stop the tears that start prickling in his eyes. He feels Gil settle onto the couch next to him and a sob leaks out through his clenched teeth - <em>because he’s unable to hide how <span class="u">pathetic</span> he is at the moment…</em></p><p>“Kid… hey…” A warm hand lands on his arm. Malcolm yanks away, scrubbing angrily at his eyes and the older man freezes beside him. “Is… is there anything I can do?” Gil asks helplessly. When Malcolm doesn’t - <em>can’t</em> - answer, he tries again. “We can talk about it, if that would help? Or… try and forget about it, watch a movie or something.” A pause, and Malcolm prays for him to just <em>go,</em> because he thinks he could maybe handle anything except this kindness right now. But Gil doesn’t go. After another minute, he sighs and tries again. “Bright… it’s ok, to not be ok about it. After everything that happened -”</p><p>“Everything that happened was <em>my fault!” </em>Malcolm blurts out. He finally makes himself look up, to see the confusion on Gil’s face, and that just makes it even worse. “Everyone’s running around after me - JT thinks I <em>took a bullet for you -</em> and you wouldn’t have even <em>been</em> at Claremont if it wasn’t for me<em>.</em> I started all this and you almost died trying to help me out of it, and you’re still helping me now, and it’s <em>not ok!</em>”</p><p>Gil stares at him, lost for words.</p><p>“You should go,” Malcolm mutters after a few seconds of silence. He’s slightly ashamed by his outburst, even if part of him is relieved to finally have it <em>said,</em> instead of haunting the corners of every conversation. “I told you, I’m fine on my own. I can -"</p><p>“Malcolm," Gil interrupts, as if he's finally processed what he's just heard, "how the <em>hell</em> d’you figure that?! You can’t seriously blame yourself for everything that happened?”</p><p>“Who else’s fault is it?”</p><p>Gil’s eyebrows shoot up his head. “You mean <em>apart</em> from all the serial killers?”</p><p>“Gil, it was<em> my</em> actions that put us in danger! I’m the one who decided to go after Endicott; I’m the one who decided to go to the Surgeon to get answers. You even told me not to go in there and I didn’t listen!” Malcolm sags back against the cushions, suddenly too exhausted to keep himself upright. “This all started with <em>me.</em>”</p><p>There’s a long silence. “That makes no sense, kid,” says Gil finally. When Malcolm doesn’t even reply he narrows his eyes. “Fine. If that’s the way you wanna go with this - how about your sister?”</p><p>Malcolm’s lost. “…What <em>about</em> my sister?”</p><p>“She’s the one who started looking into Endicott. She’s the one who dug up the intel. Doesn’t that mean this all started with <em>her</em>?”</p><p>He flounders for a second. “No… That’s different - she didn’t -"</p><p>“And that only gets us as far as the lockdown," Gil carries on. "I let the Surgeon disarm me. If I hadn’t, we could’ve holed up somewhere in Claremont, gotten out without a shot being fired. Does that make everything that happened from there<em> my</em> fault?”</p><p>Malcolm glares at him. “You’re being deliberately -“</p><p>“And Dani - she let the Surgeon get away with <em>you</em> as a hostage. No wonder she’s been beating herself up. You wouldn’t have been shot at all if she’d managed to stop him, right?”</p><p>“No!” says Malcolm, “that’s not - Gil, she doesn’t actually think that?” He feels a stab of horror at the idea Dani might blame <em>herself</em>. “My father threatened to <em>kill</em> her… to kill me in front of her! She didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t her fault.”</p><p>Gil shrugs. “She did the best she could at the time - same as the rest of us. Doesn’t stop her thinking about it. Going over it, wondering if she might’ve done something different. But yeah. <em>It’s not her fault.</em> I told her that… and now I’m telling you the same thing, since apparently you need to hear it.”</p><p>“It’s not the same -”</p><p>“It’s <em>exactly</em> the same!” explodes Gil. “Seriously, Bright - <em>don’t do this to yourself.</em> It’s enough, dealing with everything that happened, without making it all <em>your fault.</em>” He leans forward, catching Malcolm’s gaze and holding it determinedly. “Kid. Tell me you hear me.”</p><p>Malcolm stares up at him. “Gil…” he says, helplessly. “I almost got you killed.”</p><p>“You <em>saved my life</em>,” Gil corrects sharply. “Look, Malcolm… I know your head’s a little scrambled right now because honestly, mine is too. But you’re a smart kid, so I’m hoping you're gonna listen to reason. <em>Believe</em> me. This isn’t on you.”</p><p>Malcolm’s gaze skitters to the floor. He can always tell when Gil is bluffing or skirting the truth. He’s got it down to a degree of accuracy that Gil would definitely not appreciate, if he knew, which means… the man genuinely <em>doesn’t</em> think it’s his fault... just like he doesn’t think he would have killed Endicott. Even if he’s wrong on both counts, the fact that he believes it makes something hopeful uncurl in Malcolm’s chest, in defiance of the rest of him that’s insistently pointing out that Gil’s got it <em>wrong, wrong, wrong…</em></p><p>A hand lands tentatively on his shoulder. When Malcolm doesn’t flinch, it squeezes reassuringly. After another minute, Malcolm can bring himself to look up again and meet Gil’s eyes -</p><p>His phone lights up on the table.</p><p><em>Claremont Psychiatric</em>.</p><p>Malcolm’s insides turn to ice. </p><p>Gil gets to his feet abruptly, and the movement startles him out of his daze. He fumbles for the phone, thumb hovering over the <em>reject</em> button - only he doesn’t want to acknowledge the call at all; doesn’t want his father to know he even <em>exists</em> at the other end of the line. He ends up just holding it, staring down at the screen until it finally goes dark again and the apartment is plunged back into silence.</p><p>A moment later, the screen flashes again. He has a voicemail.</p><p>“If you want to <em>blame</em> someone,” says Gil - and his voice is low and strained, practically vibrating with rage - “then Nicholas Endicott and Dr Whitly would be top of the list.” He’s pacing, a frustrated little arc around the coffee table before he seems to force himself to come to a stop, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “How long’s he been calling you?”</p><p>Seeing Gil so agitated is the only thing that helps him find his voice. “That… that’s the first time. I haven’t spoken to him.”</p><p>Gil nods, and Malcolm feels a rush of gratitude that he accepts his answer as the truth. Half of his mind is already imagining the message that will be waiting for him in his phone, lurking in his voicemail like an adder poised to strike.</p><p>
  <em>My boy…</em>
</p><p>Gil folds his arms, then unfolds them, scratches his eyebrow, cycling through a dozen tiny gestures that are all about masking his real feelings and consequently couldn’t be telegraphing them any louder. There’s a strange kind of vulnerability to the question when he finally asks it, in a deceptively calm tone. “Are you going to speak to him?”</p><p>“No,” says Malcolm without even pausing to think about. “No, I’m not.” He’s distantly surprised to realise that he means it. What his father means to him, what he means to his father, if the man would have dragged that knife across his throat… these are all questions he knows will haunt him, maybe for the rest of his life, but he’s beyond the point of thinking the answers lie with talking to the man himself. The certainty of that is maybe the<em> cleanest</em> thing he feels; so blessedly uncomplicated that saying it out loud is a relief.</p><p>He doesn’t want to see his father. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near him.</p><p>Judging from the look on his face, Gil’s a little taken aback himself by his answer. “You seem... pretty sure about that.”</p><p>“It’s pretty much the only thing I am sure about.” Malcolm doesn’t know how to put it into words, but he tries to be as honest as he can. “I always knew he was… <em>capable</em>, but…” He shrugs. “Turns out knowing it and<em> living it </em>are two very different things. He was going to kill you, in front of me<em>.</em> How could I go visit him… after <em>that</em>?”</p><p>Gil’s expression flickers, this time through so many different shades of feeling Malcolm can’t even hope to keep up. He doesn’t look relieved, the way Malcolm thought he would. He feels a strange kind of trepidation when Gil heads over to the drinks trolley and pours himself a scotch, before he circles back to join him on the couch. “What?” Malcolm asks defensively. Gil hesitates and Malcolm's heart sinks. “... You don’t believe me."</p><p>“No… no Bright, it’s not that. And God knows, I’d have been happy for you to never see him again <em>before</em> any of this happened. After everything that man’s put you through, I think it’s the healthiest decision you could make.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>Gil frowns down into his drink. “But… you can’t make that kind of decision on <em>my</em> behalf, kid. It's not about what he did to me. He’s your father. This has gotta be for <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“That's just it. It <em>is</em> for me.” Malcolm turns to face him, ignoring the tug of the stitches. He can feel his lip trembling, his hand shaking again as the memory echoes around him, but he forces himself to meet Gil’s eyes so he <em>understands.</em> “You’re my family, Gil… and he left you to die in that prison. He knew that, and he did it anyway. I can’t forgive that... I can’t <em>forget</em> what that felt like. So I <em>can’t</em> see him - I don’t <em>ever</em> want to see him <em>again -</em>"</p><p>Malcolm wants to say more but his throat is choked - his vision's blurring - and then he’s being pulled into a hug. And suddenly nothing else needs to be said. He's clinging on as everything that’s been bottled up inside him, all that grief and guilt and pain, starts sobbing raggedly out of him, until there isn’t anything else. It’s everything, a tidal wave breaking over him, swallowing him whole. He's drowning in it, and then...</p><p>... it recedes. The rest of the world bleeds back in around him as the wave pulls back, slowly being replaced… by the warmth of the arms around him, the reassuring murmur of Gil’s voice, the calm stillness of the evening.</p><p>When he finally sits back against the couch, he feels… <em>quieter</em>. Not how he felt in the hospital - empty and hollowed out - but rather, like he’s been purged of something. Gil looks at him carefully, and Malcolm's never been more grateful not to be alone.</p><p>“Sorry,” he manages, slightly abashed now that he’s calmer.</p><p>“Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you, Bright. I know it’s not easy.”</p><p>“I’m just… I’m kind of a mess right now.” He gives a self-deprecating chuckle, swiping at his cheeks. “Guess I have a lot of stuff to process.”</p><p>Gil quirks him a smile, eyes crinkling. “One day at a time, kid. You’ll be ok. You've got people on your side to help you through this. Me and the team, we’re not going anywhere.”</p><p>After a beat, he gets to his feet, clapping his hands together. “Alright - I’m gonna fix us some food. I hate to tell you, but eating and sleeping are gonna be top of your agenda for you for the next few weeks. Time to get some practise in.”</p><p>“I, uh… I’m really not hungry.”</p><p>“Doctor’s orders. You gotta eat <em>something</em> today. And then maybe get some rest.”</p><p>Malcolm wrinkles his nose. “Well, if you want to send me to sleep, another baseball game is probably your best option.” Gil snorts and Malcolm inches round on the couch, settling himself more comfortably so that he can watch Gil cook. It’s soothing, seeing him at work in the kitchen. It reminds him of when he was a kid.</p><p>He watches, his mind starting to drift again… but for once, he doesn’t go back to that night. He’s anchored by the warm glow of the kitchen, the rhythmic sounds of chopping and dicing, and Gil’s words echo round his mind. <em>One day at a time. </em>Gil’s right: there's no shortcut he can take. The events of that night have cast a long shadow. He can see it stretching out ahead of him, and he can’t escape the conversations and the flashbacks and the battles that await him up ahead.</p><p>But he thinks about Dani, coming to meet him that morning at the hospital. JT, waiting for him at his door. His mother’s takeover of his kitchen, his sister’s carefully smuggled escape kit, and Gil, who followed him into that prison and followed him out of it, and is beside him even now as another evening draws in. <em>He’s already made it through one day</em>, Malcolm realises. And when the next one dawns, the shadow of that night will already be a little lighter.</p><p><em>Here goes, </em>he thinks, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so afraid. <em>One day at a time.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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